eal long distance traveling is art in motion, and calls for the spontaneous creation of intimacy as one penetrates foreign territory. There’s much to say for the second class seat rather than the sumptuous private cabin. And for travel by train rather than plane. Rail travel creates a fleeting community, a secret society within a cabin of four to six people. Time to break bread and pass the mineral water. Play international charades. Speak in tongues. Talk with your eyes. Crossing Dijon at midnight, a blood red rim lines the hills. The moon winks. A moment of silence. On the Transalpine from London to Rome, I sat with an Italian running in the Italian Nationals, and a Londoner of Pakistani origin, who described his personal version of My Beautiful Laundrette, and the overall dismal state of race relations since the Brixton riots between blacks and police. We talked for hours. Then were stricken silent by the grace of a black, star-encrusted night. We were all listening. A t ’s a long leap from this emotional “ second class” world to high-rolling, commercial first class. On the Orient Express platform in Venice, the soon-to-be passengers were the essence of predatory watchfulness. Rumor had it that Sam Shepard was aboard making a movie. When a film crew emerged from the gleaming navy and gold-trimmed carriages, a band of well-heeled Europeans, bourgeois Americans and conspicuous Texans swept on like paparazzi. The Venice Simplon Orient Express is a pricey roll through England, France, Switzerland, Austria, and Italy. Five countries in 30 hours. The trip is designed for people with too much money (a predicament I have known exactly once in my life). The immense expense is the first remove from reality. If one lacks the funds to be casual about ones pleasure, one should probably not be traveling Class A. Herein lies the crisis of first class travel. There must be sufficient resources for the mode of travel to feel commonplace. Otherwise one runs the risk of the petty irritation of “ not getting what one paid for.” Tacky. The most exquisite aspect of the VSOE is the continually transforming landscape: Venetian plains rising up to Alps and down again to Zurichsee, to Paris, and to sheep-dotted, pastoral Kent. After a century, the train still bears the stamp of a royal roadshow (spies, kings and courtesans in fact used to be regular and valued customers). Inside, eyes dart facilely, casually from the landscape to search for more mundane latter-day attractions: celebrities. Sometimes the two impulses blur, and passengers start to confuse themselves with stars, and the countryside with real estate. W he re ’s Robin Leach W hen Y ou Need Him? A had heard stories about the trashy, Caligular, totally dissolute behavior of jetsetters on junkets like this. I didn’t know if it was true, but you can bet I hoped so. The day started auspiciously. The mere spectre of Sam Shepard (no one actually saw him) held the fancy of the gossips for hours. As did the actual presence of Rolling Stone Bill Wyman, whom everyone saw but pretended not to. Lunch conversation revolved around the mild-mannered bassist and his blonde companion. What were they doing on the 30-hour trip? Inquiring minds wanted to know. Next door, a boisterous contingent of Americans (who make up 40 percent of the VSOE’s passenger list) exuded that certain earthy charm associated with Americans abroad. At the Brenner Pass, bordering Austria and Italy, 13,000 foot peaks, rushing cascades, and ancient fortresses inspired comment: “Another hohum castle,” murmured a woman in southwestern accents, as we approached a marvelously cold stone block, an archijectural bullfrog squatting on a hillside. “ Look, that one has a ‘For Sale’ sign,” drawled another facetiously. “ Let’s buy it at the next stop,” said the ladies’ male companion. “ They must be Texans,” grumbled an observer. A he rich are different,” said E Scott Fitzgerald. Indeed, they have better gossip. Tales were swapped over champagne about the high life on Malta and Ibiza, but rumor kept circulating into the evening about Bill Wyman. The tall stools in the Art Nouveau bar car provide an impromptu sobriety test. After a long interlude there, a tuxedoed gentleman arid a reporter took dinner in a deserted dining car. Deserted, that is, except for one couple, the Rolling Stone and his companion. If the reporter had leaned any further across the aisle toward Wyman’s table, she would have fallen out of her chair. For the record, the musician was, if anything, more low-key than other passengers, did not wear spandex, and did not act obnoxiously toward the waiters. Stumbling back to the cabin, I pondered my place on such a trip, and my brush with the Concorde set. It all seemed disappointingly tame—when an Italian waiter in white uniform blocked my way down the passage and tried to stick his hand down my black cocktail dress. A very Helmut Newton-ish moment. The VSOE was not a trip I would recommend to struggling honeymooners, but my trip had had its moments. Hell. I wasn’t paying. It was great. X suppose'that first class is something I could get used to (she said with irony). It would in fact be a pointless test of will to refuse an upgrade. The point is not to let travel become anesthesia. The weird incongruities, rather than flawless service are what keep the five- star experience fresh. For me, the charm of the Orient Express lies in a tiny footnote: it once had a casino, but the ball tended to fly out of the roulette wheel—a revelation that cracks the smooth, marbled service of perfection. One has to keep a certain humor about money. Otherwise the best trip becomes mere fodder for Lifestyles of the Rich and Fatuous. Afternote: An effervescent return from Paris was marred by the discovery that— thanks to reckless bank ing—I had $122.59 left to my name. It was a great year for travel, but now it’s back to the urban safari. Lisa Kinoshita is a writer based in Seattle. She will travel anywhere, any class, at the drop of a hat. Her last story in CSQ was “Ash Glow.” Artist Louise Williams lives in Lacey, Washington. This is her first appearance in CSQ. 125NW6TH © L D T O W N LIVEMUSICSEVEN DAYSAWEEK 243-2380 30 2 . 3. 4. 5. 8. 9. 6. 7. 1. 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