out of fog and time

We climbed the stairs to platform seven, lumbering under the weight of our packs like two of Hannibal’s less fit, slightly asthmatic elephants. And then – at the peak of our ascent, broken and panting – we gazed suddenly upon a thing of such wonder and grace that our packs grew instantly weightless, and our spirits lifted and revived. There, uncoiled and stretched before us like a gilded serpent, was the Orient Express.

Her deep and royal blue, though muted and restrained, was shocking in contrast to the constant red and white of the standard OBB. Her golden emblems and lettering reflected the sun – even hidden as it was behind dense cloud. Her attendants in smart, well-fit livery bowed and smiled. And through window frames of wood and plated gold I looked on scenes of painted elegance, royal delegates and heads of state dining in pressed evening attire, seated in lavishly decorated dinner cars lit for intimate conversation and the sharing of secrets.

It was an unreported stop – not listed on any schedule – and she arrived out of a thick and swirling fog without sound, her wheels cushioned from the grating metal track by a thin layer of grace. And it seemed as if this train had – for this one brief instant – crossed over, as if someone had flipped a switch on that anachronistic track of time it traveled parallel to our own and brought this seldom seen figment of our imagination into unexpected realization.

And this Brigadoon of trains – this Laputa, this great pink sea snail – vanished from sight as mysteriously as it arrived, timed to the precise moment when all bystanders simultaneously – and coincidentally – blinked.

We drab we burdened few rubbed our eyes, looked at each other, and shrugged – not sure if what we saw was real.

But I managed to snap a picture.