My journey on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express: Paris to Venice
Sometimes you do something that's been on your list for years. And it exceeds every expectation.
The Venice Simplon-Orient-Express was one of those experiences — one of the last guardians of a time when the journey was the destination. When rail travel was romance, not just transport.
Something profound happens when you travel at the pace the world was meant to be seen.
You remember what we've lost in our rush to arrive. You rediscover the art of being present, of conversation, of watching the world change mile by mile.
I've written about it below because sometimes we need reminders that certain experiences still exist in this world. The kind that slow you down. That make you present. That remind you why we travel in the first place.
If you've ever wondered about this legendary journey, this one's for you.
It was everything I hoped for — and then some.
From the moment we stepped onto the platform at Gare de l’Est, it felt like entering a different realm. A nod to another time. Not ‘vintage’ for the sake of it. But timeless — in that rare, reverent way that iconic things are.
The train gleamed. Staff lined the platform in blue and gold. And the energy and excitement in the air was electric. My fellow passengers and I all buzzing with anticipation.
We were boarded by our personal steward Jasper, a consummate professional and wonderful human that looked after us for the complete journey. With free-flowing Ruinart Rosé we pulled away from the station.
And then we were off.
We glided out of Paris like a legend in motion embarking on its maiden voyage. That slow, elegant departure. That delicious sense of anticipation. A rhythm began — that gentle click and sway, hypnotic and grounding. A reminder that you’re moving — but not rushing. I genuinely felt like I was part of a movie scene.
The route is something else entirely.
You don’t just see the Alps — you feel them. Vast and cinematic. Peaks that rise like ancient monuments. Valleys that hold centuries of secrets. The train coils through them — like it knows the way by heart. France became Switzerland, then Austria, then Italy — borders blurred by the snow-capped grandeur outside our window.
And inside?
Velvet booths. Polished brass. Murano glass lamps casting a warm glow. It was theatre, yes — but never overdone. Just... right. Glamour without effort. Style without stiffness.
Every meal was an event. Think pressed tuxedos, sequins, vintage Lalique panels catching the light as we moved through tunnels. The most delicious cuisines prepared by Alex Viala and his team Lobster tail, truffle, wild mushroom risotto — somehow prepared on a moving train. So impressive and hugely talented.
And later, of course — the piano bar. A dirty martini (just how I like it), a pianist and an electric air of excitement and a collective knowledge that you don't want to go to bed because you don't want it to end.
That's the thing about this train. It grabs you. Wraps its arms around you and holds you in its embrace. I couldn't keep the smile off my face.
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