Sirkeci Station was nearly empty when I arrived late in the evening. An embossment of Ataturk, the founding father of the modern Turkish republic, guarded the tracks. My train was waiting nearby, a decrepit series of blue sleeping cars that did nothing to evoke the illusion of the old Orient Express. I chucked my bags in my compartment and made my bed.

A mechanic checks the train's wheels at a stop in the Bulgarian mountains.

Sleeping on trains is the best -- until you reach a border station. At 3 a.m., a woman with the frontier police slammed the door open and shouted at me, demanding something in Turkish. Desperately trying not to faint, I saw that the other passengers were disembarking.

Apparently, they wanted us to line up at the control office, some five platforms away, and present our papers. They didn't rush it; the officer studied my passport like it was a magazine, and a very interesting one at that. The line behind me grew to some 20 people -- and I grew very unpopular.

We got going again in an hour or so, and already I hated border stations.

Next stop: Bulgaria, another country that looks to the West but comes from the East.

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printable version of "EUROPE: The Re-Orient Express"