Luxury travel by train

So there I was, a humble scribe of the digital age, embarking on what the brochure called "The Sisyphus Express." Not its real name, of course. Its real name was something unpronounceable, a series of elegant syllables that roughly translated to "More Money Than Your Entire Bloodline Has Ever Seen."

My goal? To experience luxury travel by train. Not just travel. Luxury travel. The kind where the word "journey" is used unironically, and the destination is merely a disappointing footnote.

I was greeted not by a conductor, but by a "curator of transit experiences," a man named Alistair whose handshake was firmer than my life choices. He looked at my single, modest suitcase with the gentle pity a botanist might reserve for a plastic flower.

"Your luggage will be… decontaminated," he murmured, before leading me to my "accommodation." I was half-expecting a room. What I got was a "horizontally-oriented private conservatory with bespoke biophilic design." It had more square footage than my first apartment and a bed so large I needed a map and a compass to find the pillow.

The whistle blew—a sound not of crude steam, but of a Tibetan singing bowl being gently caressed by a silk scarf. We were off.

The first hour was a whirlwind of orientation. I was taught how to operate the "ambient luminescence regulator" (a dimmer switch), the "thermo-tactile atmospheric modulator" (a thermostat), and the "24-karat gold-plated hydration summoner" (a button to call for water).

Lunch was an event. The dining car wasn't a car; it was a "rolling gastronomic salon." The menu had no prices, which is how you know you're in trouble. It was just a list of ingredients followed by their provenance. I ordered the "Heirloom Tomato Salad."

What arrived was a single, perfect tomato, sliced with geometric precision, drizzled with an olive oil that was, according to the sommelier (for oil, yes), "cold-pressed from olives personally sighed upon by a monk in Tuscany." It was accompanied by three crystals of Maldon sea salt, arranged in a tiny replica of the Giza pyramids. It cost roughly the same as a car tire. It was the most profound tomato I have ever eaten. I felt both enlightened and deeply, deeply ashamed.

The scenery, you ask? Oh, it was magnificent. I assume. I caught glimpses of it between the sommelier explaining the "mineral terroir" of the water and the "artisanal bread curator" introducing me to a sourdough starter that was older than my country.

We passed glaciers, fjords, and ancient forests. But here's the secret they don't tell you about luxury train travel: the real view is inside. The real spectacle is watching a grown man in a waistcoat use a pair of silver tweezers to place a single micro-green on your seared scallop, while outside, a literal eagle soars majestically over a canyon, completely ignored.

I tried to strike up a conversation with my fellow passengers.
"Breathtaking views, aren't they?" I ventured to a woman swathed in cashmere.
She peered over her novel. "Hmm? Oh, yes. But the real attraction is the disconnect, darling. The sublime isolation."

She then returned to her book, which I noticed was titled The Art of Being Alone Together.  

By the third day, I had achieved a state of Zen-like detachment. My every whim was anticipated. My glass was never empty, my pillow was perpetually fluffed, and my soul was slowly calcifying from a diet of pure, unadulterated comfort. I was a hamster in a gilded, perfectly climate-controlled wheel, being rolled through the most beautiful landscapes on earth, and I was bored out of my skull.

We arrived at our destination precisely on time, because of course we did. Alistair handed me my "decontaminated" suitcase. It seemed to sigh with relief.

"So," he said, with a smile that probably cost more than my degree. "How was your journey?"

I looked back at the gleaming, silent beast of a train. I looked at the bustling, chaotic, real world outside the station. I thought of the monk-sighed olive oil and the ignored eagle.

"It was… an experience," I said, which is the most luxurious thing you can say, because it means absolutely nothing and costs you nothing at all.

And that, my friends, is the viral truth of luxury train travel. It’s not about where you’re going. It’s about being able to afford to be profoundly, exquisitely bored in the most expensive way possible. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go look at pictures of a budget airline's legroom and feel something again.

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