Remember the movie Murder on the Orient-Express? All that polished wood, Lalique glass, brass fittings, and elegant people carrying on civilized conversations while drinking Champagne and wearing silk? Well, the film was hardly an exaggeration. We just returned from a trip from Venice to London on this "Train of Kings," and the experience was so theatrical we expected Hercule Poirot to turn up any second.

It was the most luxurious two days and one night of our lives. "This is a train for special occasions," the immaculately uniformed steward said. And when we talked to people in the 1920's-style bar car—with the pianist who plays until everyone has toddled off to his cozy little bed in the wee hours of the night—we found that the steward wasn't kidding. One man we met, for example, had surprised his wife on her 40th birthday by telling her they were going to Venice and then whisking her onto the train for the romantic ride of their lives. She beamed the whole time we watched her as she held her husband's hand and sipped Champagne.

People celebrate their 25th, their 30th, their 50th anniversaries on the Orient-Express. It helps assuage the pain of a 50th, 60th or 70th birthday. Folks celebrate the last child finishing college and actually finding a job. Believe us when we tell you it's worth every penny of the nearly $2000 per person to sit in your exquisitely paneled compartment looking out a huge window while the snow-covered Italian Dolomites fly, followed by the Alps of Liechtenstein, Switzerland and France and the delightful chalets and villas that nestle at the foot of these mountains. Perched on a comfortable, upholstered couch, drinking tea brought to you by your own steward, who shows you the little button to push if you want him to bring you anything—anything—you feel very much like Lauren Bacall or Ingrid Bergman must've felt.

One morning, we stepped on the gleaming navy blue and gold train in Venice and within a very short time—by lunchtime, to be exact—we got completely used to the feeling of being totally spoiled. We maneuvered our way through the narrow cars to one of the three dining cars for lunch and, as we soon discovered, each dining car has its own specific personality. One had panels of Lalique glass between the windows; one had black lacquer chinoiserie; and the one we lunched in on Day One had delicate marquetry inlaid on mahogany. The tablecloths were fine Italian linen, the crystal was French, the china by Ginori, and the food—oh!, the food. We were served three courses, including a Mediterranean prawns with a superb Scotch salmon mayonnaise, and a heavenly meringue with chocolate in the middle for dessert.

We sat in divinely comfortable armchairs, mmming and ahhing equally over the food and the Dolomites out our window. Sipping a great white Bordeaux, we pretended we lived that way every day. That was the best part of this trip: You could easily imagine yourself back in the '20s and '30s, when your fellow diners might have been King Boris of Bulgaria or Elsa Maxwell, Mata Hari or the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Afterwards, we were invited to inspect the three kitchens on board, and it must have taken enormous patience on the part of the train's French chef, Christian Bodiguel, to allow us into a space about the size of a New York City apartment kitchen, where he supervises two sous-chefs and four cooks. Cramped quarters or no, Bodiguel and Co. was able to produce the most subtly flavored, marvelously delicious food, as we had just learned.

After lunch, we strolled through the piano bar and back to our compartments—perfect for a cozy read. This private time was punctuated by an occasional walk into the corridor to look out the huge windows at the other side of the train, where the snow-covered Alps seemed close enough to touch. Later that afternoon our steward popped by to ask if we would like tea. We weren't really hungry after that lunch, but we weren't going to miss anything on this trip, so we happily (but elegantly) stuffed ourselves with delectable little pastries and hot chocolate.

Suddenly, it was time to get ready for dinner. The one slight, infinitesimal flaw in the Orient-Express is that there is no shower. Yet we somehow managed to take a full bath in a generous-sized washbasin tucked away behind mahogany doors in one corner of our room-ette. There was a nice, thick towel, lovely soap in one of those little blue containers you can take home to scent your lingerie drawer, mirrors on the inside of the doors of the bath closet, and a large mirror facing you for make-up. We wouldn't have believed it was possible, given the limited room to maneuver, but within half an hour we met in the corridor, dressed in our most elegant finery. After all, as the Orient-Express brochure had urged us,"You cannot be overdressed." The Europeans, in particular, seemed to take this statement to heart. Throughout our Lalique dining car, men could be seen in tuxedos and, in one instance, a kilt, while the women sported luxurious fabrics, sparkling jewels, boas and fans.

Then…The meal began! It was the 9:30 second dinner sitting (the first had been at 6:30), and while we talked about life and love, men and travel, we enjoyed another memorable Orient-Express meal. It consisted of four courses, including perfectly cooked duck, a cheese platter, adorable pastries and something called mignardaises, which, based on the French word mignon, we translated as "little cuties." Anyway, they were different flavored gumdrops, which were nice (though a far cry from chocolate).

Our leisurely dinner over, we strolled into the piano bar and joined a group of British journalists and some Microsoft employees, loaded down with recording equipment. After some prodding, they confessed that they were engaged in some sort of secret activity involving recording the sounds of the Orient-Express. (We couldn't get any more out of them than that, no matter how we plied them with Champagne.) Finally, at about 1 AM we retreated to our compartments, where the couches had been miraculously transformed into wonderfully comfortable beds with sheets monogrammed with the emblem of the Orient-Express. Bliss.

The next morning—voilà!—we awoke in Paris. We threw on some clothing and stepped off the train briefly in the Gare de l'Est. From the platform we could see the chef supervising the loading of fresh bread and croissants onto the train for our brunch later in that morning. But first, we returned to our compartments for a mini-breakfast. At about 9 AM the steward brought us coffee or tea, brioche and orange juice. (God forbid we should go hungry until brunch at 11.) After a quick spruce-up at the sink, we dressed for the last morning on this leg of the trip. The train started up again and soon we were immersed in watching the little towns of France go by, as if they were part of a film directed by Louis Malle. At 11, we went to our third dining car, the one decorated in black-and-pearl chinoiserie, and ate a sumptuous brunch while Chantilly, Clermont (the Champagne country of the Somme River regions), Amiens and le Touquet (the hangout of aristocrats) zipped past our windows. Finally, in Boulogne-sur-Mer, our luggage was loaded onto a catamaran for a smooth, hour-long trip to Folkestone, England, where we boarded the British Pullman train, the cream and gold extension of the Orient-Express in Britain.

Settled in luxurious armchairs, we drank Champagne (by now a day without Champagne seemed incomplete) and had a magnificent tea consisting of finger sandwiches, scones, pastries and fresh strawberries, as if we hadn't eaten ourselves silly at brunch in France. Well, you do what you have to do. All too soon we were in London's Victoria Station, where we claimed our bags and went off for to two days in London—a whole adventure in itself, best left for another article.

Photographs by Mary McHugh.

For further information: Orient-Express: (800) 524-2420 or www.orient-expresstrains.com.