As the train pulled out of Istanbul’s Bakırköy Station in the general direction of Paris , our cabin steward Eduardo poured the first of what would be many glasses of Champagne over the next six days. Crystal flute in hand, I settled into one of the plush (and firmly anchored to the floor) upholstered seats across from my mom and raised my glass. Just a week earlier, I had called her with a last-minute ask: Could she fly from my hometown in Wisconsin to join me on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express ? We’d booked her tickets moments later. As a travel writer, this wasn’t the first (or the last) time I would reach out with a plus one for a soon-departing trip, but it was one of the most special occasions: over 40 years after she’d first read Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express , she still carried a fantasy of traveling on the iconic train.…