In an age where everything from meals to messages arrives in seconds, there’s something quietly defiant, revolutionary even, about taking your time. And never have I felt the romance of lingering more powerfully than on the velvet-lined carriages of the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express.

I boarded in Budapest, an unapologetically dramatic city to begin such a journey, and disembarked in Paris the following morning. For just shy of 24 hours I felt as though I had stepped into a different century, or more precisely, a parallel reality stitched together from silk drapes, Lalique glass panels, and the hushed elegance polished mahogany.

For those of us who grew up captivated by Murder on the Orient Express and I confess, I’ve watched the 1974 movie too many times to admit, stepping aboard this train is less about nostalgia and more about theatre. The creak of antique doors, the way the light hits the bar car’s mirrors at cocktail hour, the elegance of dressing for dinner while gliding past sleeping villages, it’s Agatha Christie meets Grand Budapest Hotel, with a generous pour of Champagne.

This journey isn’t about going from A to B. It’s about the in-between: sipping negronis in the Bar Car while the pianist plays Cole Porter, disappearing into conversation with strangers and being rocked to sleep by the rhythm of the rails. The VSOE isn’t content to simply take you places; it conjures an entire world where time slows down and glamour takes over.

Of course, slow travel isn’t just a buzzword anymore. It's become a luxury. There’s a rising desire among modern travellers to linger, to revel in experience rather than efficiency and Belmond has masterfully tapped into this zeitgeist. Since LVMH acquired the brand, the train has become even more of a haute couture experience on wheels. From new Grand Suites to artistic collaborations like the L’Observatoire carriage by French street artist JR, the VSOE is not content to rest on its richly upholstered laurels.

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In my case, the Budapest-to-Paris route felt less like a commute and more like an exhale. We slipped through Austria and Germany as dusk fell, the dining car flickering with candlelight, silver cutlery glinting beneath starched linens. Later, after an indulgent dinner paired with Italian wine, I wandered back to the bar where,the house band, all sporting excellent moustaches, kept the revellers entertained, while while barmen in those quintessential, old-world white jackets poured nightcaps with theatrical flair. The details blur, but the atmosphere lingers like a particularly good perfume.

The next morning, as the French countryside drifted past in a blur of soft light and dewy fields, I woke to a gentle knock on my cabin door and the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. My steward, seemingly plucked from a Wes Anderson film in a turquoise uniform trimmed with gold piping and brass buttons, appeared with a breakfast tray: a silver pot of coffee, warm croissants, fresh fruit, and a note that read, “Paris in two hours.” I wasn’t ready.

Because that’s the secret of this train: it teaches you to fall in love with the journey itself. To savour stillness. To dress for dinner. To flirt with strangers over old fashioneds. To take the long, scenic route not out of necessity, but because it’s beautiful.

So yes, there are quicker ways to get from Budapest to Paris. But I can’t think of one more unforgettable.

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