The slowness is the point. Thirty-two hours to cover ground a faster train does in twenty.
Twice a week through the frozen heart of Anatolia, a train called the Orient Express carries 180 souls on a 32-hour passage between Ankara and Kars — a journey that has become less about arrival than about the ancient human need to gather, celebrate, and be briefly transported out of ordinary life. In a world of frictionless speed, Turkey's most coveted rail ticket is prized precisely for its slowness, its cold, and the strangers it throws together. The train has become a mirror: in its compartments, a society rediscovers something it feared it had lost.
- Tickets vanish almost instantly — only 180 berths, only three winter months, and an Instagram-fueled hunger that has made this journey one of the most sought-after travel experiences in Turkey.
- The extreme cold — sometimes reaching minus 40°C — freezes water lines and strains every system, keeping the technical crew in a constant, invisible battle to hold the journey together.
- Passengers respond to the hardship not with complaint but with decoration: tablecloths, garlands, portable speakers, whisky, cookies, and dancing that spills from compartments into the corridors by midnight.
- The train holds Turkish society in miniature — retired women escaping domestic routine, old friends reviving childhood memories, some compartments loud with music while others fall quiet in prayer.
- At Erzurum, frozen platform and all, passengers break into traditional dance and even the locomotive driver delays departure to move with the rhythm — the destination almost beside the point.
Twice a week, a train leaves Ankara with 180 passengers and 32 hours ahead of it, winding through the snow-covered plateaus of eastern Anatolia toward Kars. Before it even clears the capital, the compartments have been transformed — red tablecloths, garlands, uncorked bottles. This is the Turistik Dogu Ekspresi, Turkey's Orient Express, and a ticket aboard it has become nearly impossible to find.
The train runs only from late December through March, a window chosen to capture Anatolia at its most dramatic and most severe. Temperatures drop to minus 24, sometimes minus 40 degrees Celsius. The service launched in 2019, was suspended by the pandemic in 2020, and returned to a world that had discovered it through Instagram and travel rankings. Demand has never recovered its balance with supply. Zulan-Nour Komurcu, celebrating her 26th birthday in a compartment she had dressed with a wreath and mauve lights, said simply: 'It was my dream. But the seats disappear so fast.'
The train takes the scenic route — through Kayseri, Sivas, Erzincan, Erzurum — at a pace that favors the view. A faster line exists, but speed is not what anyone came for. The dining car hangs a disco ball above its white tablecloths. A lawyer named Yoruk Giris arrived with friends, a portable speaker, and whisky. By midnight, strangers were dancing in the hallways.
Moving quietly through it all is Fatih Yalcin, the technical engineer, repairing what the cold breaks and staying out of sight. 'Last week we were at minus 24. The water froze,' he said. 'Seeing the passengers come and go happy — that is a true pleasure for me.'
The train carries a cross-section of Turkish life: forty retired women from Bursa on an escape from home, couples in their fifties reliving journeys made with grandparents, compartments where music plays next to compartments where passengers pray. At Erzurum, the final stop before Kars, sitting nearly two thousand meters above sea level, dozens of passengers poured onto the frozen platform and began to dance. The locomotive driver, smiling, held the train in place and moved with the rhythm. The journey had become what it was always meant to be — not transportation, but a reason to gather.
Twice a week, a train departs Ankara carrying 180 passengers in nine cars, bound for Kars in Turkey's far northeast, a journey of 1,300 kilometers that winds through snowy plateaus and takes 32 hours if all goes well. By the time it pulls away from the capital, the compartments have already been transformed. Red tablecloths appear. Garlands go up. Bottles are uncorked. This is the Orient Express—Turistik Dogu Ekspresi—and it has become the most coveted, most festive train in Turkey.
Getting a ticket is nearly impossible. The train runs only from late December through March, a three-month window designed to capture Anatolia's most dramatic season, when the landscape turns white and the temperatures drop to minus 24, sometimes minus 40 degrees Celsius. The service was suspended in 2020, just a year after it launched, when the pandemic shut everything down. When it returned, demand overwhelmed supply. Instagram had discovered it. Travel writers had ranked the Ankara-Kars line among the four most beautiful railway routes in the world. Now everyone wanted in.
Zulan-Nour Komurcu, 26, was celebrating her birthday aboard. She had decorated her compartment with an evergreen wreath and a garland of mauve lights. On the table, covered with an embroidered cloth, sat cookies and a porcelain teapot. "It was my dream," she said. "I wanted this trip so badly. But the seats disappear so fast." For her, this was the gift.
The train moves through the interior provinces—Kayseri, Sivas, Erzincan, Erzurum—at a pace that prioritizes the view over arrival. There is a faster route, more direct, that covers the same ground in twenty hours without the tourist stops. But speed is not the point. The dining car, with white tablecloths and a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, serves throughout the journey. In the corridors, groups gather as night falls. Yoruk Giris, a 38-year-old lawyer, had come with two friends, armed with a portable speaker playing Turkish rock, whisky, beer, and snacks. "We prepared a lot," he said. "We needed something joyful." By midnight, strangers were dancing in the hallways.
Fatih Yalcin, the train's technical engineer, moves through the cars checking electrical systems, fixing what breaks, staying invisible to the passengers. "There is always something to repair," he said. "Last week we were at minus 24 degrees. The water froze. Sometimes it drops to minus 40." He intervenes only when necessary. "Seeing the passengers come and go happy—that is a true pleasure for me."
The train carries a cross-section of Turkish society. Forty retired women from Bursa, a city on the Sea of Marmara, had booked the journey as an escape from husbands and fathers. Two couples in their fifties, friends since high school, traveled together, reviving the trips they had taken as children with their grandparents. Ahmet Cavus felt the weight of that nostalgia. "We are reliving the journeys we made when we were young," he said. Some compartments held alcohol and music. Two doors down, passengers were praying. The train contained multitudes.
After a day and a night aboard, the energy had not dimmed. At Erzurum, the final stop, sitting at 1,945 meters above sea level, dozens of passengers began dancing a traditional dance on the frozen platform. The station thermometer read minus 11 degrees Celsius. The tea vendor's radio crackled with music. The locomotive driver, smiling, delayed departure toward Kars, moving to the rhythm. The train had become what it was designed to be: not transportation, but a reason to gather, to celebrate, to remember what travel once meant.
Notable Quotes
It was my dream. I wanted this trip so badly. But the seats disappear so fast.— Zulan-Nour Komurcu, 26, celebrating her birthday aboard
We are reliving the journeys we made when we were young, with our grandparents.— Ahmet Cavus, reflecting on the nostalgia of the journey
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does this train matter so much to people? It's just a route between two cities.
It's seasonal. It only runs three months a year, in winter, when the landscape is snow-covered. That scarcity alone makes it precious. But more than that—it's designed to be slow. Thirty-two hours to cover ground a faster train does in twenty. The slowness is the point.
And the decorations, the parties—that's passengers doing that themselves?
Entirely. They arrive with garlands, tablecloths, food, music. They're not being entertained by the train. They're creating the experience together. A woman celebrated her birthday in her compartment. Forty retired women booked it as an escape. A lawyer came with friends to dance all night.
It sounds like nostalgia.
It is. One passenger said he was reliving childhood trips with his grandparents. The train taps into something people feel they've lost—the idea that travel could be about the journey itself, not just arrival. And about being together without screens.
What about the maintenance? The engineer mentioned minus 40 degrees.
The cold is brutal. Water freezes. Systems fail constantly. The engineer has to keep fixing things invisibly, so passengers don't notice. It's a fragile operation held together by constant, unseen work.
So the festive atmosphere depends on someone else's labor.
Exactly. The party happens because Fatih Yalcin is checking electrical systems in the cold. The train's success is built on that invisible foundation.