The journey begins at the Nyugati train station in Budapest. More specifically, it begins in a finely appointed, Belle Epoque-era waiting room, tucked away, unbeknownst to most passersby, right next to the train tracks. At one end of the room is a pair of large, ornately carved and gilded doors. When a uniformed porter slips through them, I get a glimpse of something shiny and black, decorated with gold trim, the subject of over a century of fantasies and the reason I’m here: the Orient Express.
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