No longer steamy but still romantic

After a trip last month from Paris to the Loire Valley on the Pullman Orient Express, I decided there are trains to get you where you want to go and then there’s the Orient Express, for cross-cultural lessons and pure, unadulterated joy.

Just as in the glamorous heyday of train travel in the early 20th century, it is all polished service and old-world style, right out of Agatha Christie’s “Murder on the Orient Express.” Marquetry paneling, gleaming chrome and original Lalique glass enhance its carriages, each an officially designated French historic monument.

When people dream of luxury European train travel, the Venice Simplon-Orient Express often comes to mind. It was launched in 1883, abandoned when the Continent became the scene of two world wars and resurrected 22 years ago by American railway enthusiast James B. Sherwood.

Besides the fabled route from London to Venice, Italy, the Orient Express now offers dreamy, multiday excursions in Britain and Southeast Asia.

That’s all I knew about the Orient Express until I read in a Paris newspaper about another train made up of vintage Orient Express cars, operated by the Compagnie des Wagons-Lits, which originated the London-Venice train and is now a subsidiary of the French Accor hotel group.

It’s made up of seven sensational cars, refurbished last year, which have such names as Star of the North and Golden Arrow.

It is chiefly hired out for corporate special events, but about a dozen times a year, the Pullman Orient Express, or POE, offers short excursions not far from Paris to independent travelers who want a bit of the bygone grandeur of European railways.

The chance to ride in style on the POE was too good to pass up, although it was pricey: $425 to $500 per person for the 100-mile trip.

Wearing high heels and a black cocktail dress, I tottered to Track 21 at the Gare D’Austerlitz on the east side of Paris. On the platform, a four-man Dixieland jazz band, complete with a washboard and wearing Panama hats, was entertaining arriving passengers. I thought it a bit hokey but suspended judgment once my feet hit the red carpet leading to my assigned carriage.

The Star of the North, launched in 1929, had red and beige patterned carpeting, big comfortable armchairs at starched, white-linen-covered tables, white roses in bud vases and gorgeous pink Art Nouveau lamps. I took my seat at a table toward the front, across the aisle from a group already sipping champagne from glass flutes, demonstrating the French art of savoir-vivre at 3:30 in the afternoon.

A waiter soon came by, cradling a bottle of Moet et Chandon like a baby, and I could not resist. Then the train started, and Paris yielded to the green countryside; the canapes arrived, cunningly designed little mouthfuls of asparagus and salmon, followed by the band.

The members had caught on that I was American and clustered around my table for a rendition of “Bill Bailey” in an accented English that had Bill thrown out with “nuteen but a feen tut com.”

The trip gave me a chance to watch French people having fun, arguing, flirting, incessantly running to the bar car for a smoke.

After a while my neighbors took an interest in me. Generally, I have found that the French respond best to Americans who look as though they don’t need anything. And after a flute or two, I didn’t.

I’ve taken luxury trains in the U.S. and Mexico, but the French know how to do it best. There were no glitches, only charming flourishes. When we got to the Blois train station, buses awaited to take us to the Cheverny Chateau, surrounded by green felt lawns and mature trees.

Ten grooms in knee boots and white breeches stood on the front steps, playing hunting horns. When they finished, the front door swung open.

Perfectly symmetrical, neoclassical Cheverny was built in the early 17th century by the Huraults, who still live there and have taken pains to preserve its extraordinary furnishings: a Titian in the salon; a signed letter from George Washington; delightfully deceitful trompe l’oeil paneling; a bed canopied in Persian silk; a golden Empire clock that struck 7 as I passed by.

After the tour there was more champagne. Then another treat: the chance to see about 40 of Cheverny’s hunting dogs, English fox terrier and French Poitevin mixes, with the exuberance of Labs and the spots of beagles.

They arrived on the lawn in a throbbing pack, tails wagging wildly, their pedigreed dignity out the window when they had the chance to get petted.

Back on the train around 9 p.m., we commenced the return trip to Paris while a five-course dinner was served: vichyssoise; potatoes and foie gras; fillet of sole with artichokes and spinach; St. Honore, a delectable whipped-cream confection, and cheese, for dessert. Occasionally, the sedate French people across the aisle, who began behaving like Las Vegas conventioneers as the wine flowed, asked how I’d liked the meal, train and tour.

“You don’t find anything like Cheverny in the States,” the man said proudly. “But then, you have your Grand Canyon.”

*

Pullman Orient Express

Address: Gare de Paris Bercy, 48 Bis Boulevard de Bercy, Paris 75012

Contact: 011-33-1-43-46-28-10, www.pullmanorientexpress.com