25 Days, 9 Countries, 1,959 Miles: A Journey Through Europe by Train

Departure: London, England

This morning, London St. Pancras is eerily quiet. The vast station is devoid of commuters, its cafes closed for the day. Though I frequently travel from here—it's just a 10-minute bike ride from my home—I'm not used to seeing it so empty at this hour. But today is different; today marks the start of a journey like no other.

Normally, I'd be here catching a train to the suburbs or the coast. But today, I join the crowd lining up for the high-speed Eurostar, which will carry us from the UK to Europe. I find myself here not out of mere necessity, but because I am lost—not in the physical sense, but in a more profound, existential way. Six years after the Brexit referendum, I still haven't come to terms with the decision. The vote to leave the European Union shocked and angered me, stripping away not only the freedoms to live and work across Europe, but also the sense of economic and political stability that membership had provided. For a long time, I held onto the hope that someone would undo the damage. Eventually, that denial faded into a deeper sadness. What I mourned, though I couldn't fully express it at the time, was the loss of something intangible: a sense of shared purpose and unity. Joni Mitchell’s words ring truer than ever: 'You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.'

Losing my European citizenship left me feeling disconnected, and as soon as the pandemic restrictions eased, I sought a way to re-establish a bond with the continent that, despite political separation, still feels like home. Trains seemed like the natural choice—not only because of their environmental benefits but also for the seamless experience they offered. With no airports or security checks to interrupt the journey, I saw train travel as a perfect way to rediscover the interconnectedness of Europe, something Britain had opted out of, and perhaps the most immediate way to feel a sense of connection once again.

I devised an ambitious plan: a 25-day, nine-country expedition that would begin and end in London—and, in the process, allow me to reconnect with my European roots, even if I no longer hold official citizenship.

Leg 1: London to Strasbourg, France

401 miles

After seven hours and two trains, I find myself aboard a tourist boat, drifting through the canals of Strasbourg, the capital of France's Alsace region. If there’s one city that embodies the essence of Europe, it’s Strasbourg. Situated on the banks of the Rhine, just a stone’s throw from Germany, Strasbourg has been claimed by various rulers for centuries—independent, German, French, German again, French again. No wonder the city has embraced its European identity with such fervor. Today, it serves as an official European capital, home to several EU institutions, and one of my first stops. I believe border cities like Strasbourg offer a unique perspective, showing Europe not as a collection of separate nations but as a unified, ever-evolving continent. These cities challenge our notions of borders, revealing both their arbitrary nature and the significance we place on them.

As I glide along the canals, the boat’s speakers spill out facts about the city, as vivid and eclectic as the buildings around me. I learn that Strasbourg has been shaped by a long line of rulers—from the Holy Roman Empire in the 10th century to Napoleon’s reign in the 19th. The city’s banks have borne witness to centuries of history. The medieval center is a maze of half-timbered houses, their steep, slanted roofs stacked together like bottles of riesling, the region’s signature wine.

In 1681, Louis XIV of France annexed Alsace, transforming it into a garden of his vision. The Siege of Strasbourg in 1870 brought destruction to the city, leveling whole neighborhoods. In its place, the new Neustadt district emerged, with grand, neoclassical buildings reflecting the change in rulers. Afterward, in 1872, Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany undertook a major reconstruction, hoping to 'Germanize' Strasbourg by rebuilding key institutions like the government offices and the University of Strasbourg following France's defeat by Prussia.

Strasbourg’s history is also marked by its role as a battleground between France and Germany. In the Place de la République, a poignant statue depicts a mother cradling her two sons, one facing Germany and the other facing France. The city bears the scars of two World Wars, and though it took time to heal, today Strasbourg stands as a symbol of reconciliation, bridging the divides between nations.

As the boat passes by postwar housing developments, the modern face of Strasbourg emerges. On the river’s edge, the sleek glass structure of the European Parliament glints in the sunlight. Once a month, this building fills with delegates, working toward a future for Europe that transcends borders. Today, however, it sits empty—an emblem of an idealistic vision, one that I long to understand.

Leg 2: Strasbourg to Tirano, Italy

362 miles

A few days later, I return to Strasbourg’s train station, ready for the next chapter: a whirlwind 72-hour journey across Switzerland, aboard two of Europe’s most scenic trains—the Glacier Express and the Bernina Express. Situated in the heart of Europe, Switzerland remains outside the political sphere of the European Union, which sometimes gives it an air of detachment. But the country isn’t immune to EU-related debates; recent discussions about Switzerland possibly joining the union have been as tumultuous as the Alpine terrain. Switzerland is also home to one of the world’s finest rail networks, and to travel from northeastern France to Italy, crossing its borders is inevitable.

An hour later, we've crossed into Switzerland, and the landscape shifts immediately. Brown-and-white cows graze peacefully in the meadows, while homes with chalet-style roofs seem scattered across the countryside, as if carelessly placed. Even the national trait of efficient politeness is evident: when I change trains in Basel, the conductor apologizes for our three-minute delay and assures me that all connecting services have been held for us.

The next morning, aboard the Glacier Express, I watch the Alps unfold before me in dramatic stretches. Yesterday, the land rolled gently beneath us, but today, the towering peaks are hidden behind a veil of low clouds. We enter the Gotthard Base Tunnel and don’t emerge until 20 minutes later. When I look back, the mountains seem to collapse inward, like a deck of cards being shuffled, while snow and cloud blend together, obscuring the horizon.

The experience aboard the Glacier Express is immersive, with its curved observation windows drawing you into the heart of the landscape. As we ascend through the Oberalp Pass, the scenery envelopes me until we’re finally above the cloud line, where snow-covered peaks stretch out around us. From the summit, I glimpse a strip of blue—the icy beginnings of the Rhine River. After Strasbourg’s architectural density, this train journey feels like a refuge—a tranquil escape where I can put aside thoughts of identity, borders, and politics, and simply immerse myself in the continent's raw beauty.

Perhaps that's why the journey the following day hits me so deeply. Boarding the polished Swiss train that will descend nearly 6,000 feet, taking me to the northern Italian town of Tirano, I can’t help but wonder if this second Alpine adventure could possibly compare to what I’ve already experienced.

Yet the Bernina Express turns out to be even more spectacular, and unexpectedly emotional. Streams rush past the windows, so close I could almost reach out and touch them. The sunlight bouncing off the Morteratsch Glacier floods my senses, and the sheer magnitude of the mountains leaves me in awe. As the train starts its steep descent toward the Poschiavo Valley, I fight back the urge to cry.

Embarrassed, I turn my face away from the window, but then I hear a soft sniffle. The woman sitting opposite me is also moved by the landscape. It turns out she’s French Swiss and speaks fluent English. I mention how surprised I am that she’s so affected by the mountains, given that she lives among them. 'I’ve never seen them like this before,' she replies.

This is exactly what I hoped to gain from this journey—seeing familiar things in a new light. This small yet deeply meaningful interaction with a stranger feels like a sign that I’m on the right path. We sit together in quiet understanding, our tears drying as the landscape continues to unfold around us.

Leg 3: Tirano to Trieste, Italy

177 miles

I’ve carved out a single day in Tirano, just enough time to visit its medieval shrines and modern vineyards. But soon enough, I’m back on the train, heading east toward Trieste, which some might argue is the least 'Italian' part of Italy.

Though Italy is often considered the cradle of Western civilization, the country didn’t unify until 1861, and Trieste’s sense of Italian identity is even more tenuous. While it became part of Italy in the 1915 Treaty of London, Trieste’s true formative years were during the 19th century, when it served as the primary seaport for the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Today, traces of its Habsburg legacy remain everywhere, from the grand squares and imposing statues to the elegant cafés where locals still take their time to savor a leisurely espresso.

After a couple of days in Trieste, I find myself captivated by the Viennese-style coffeehouses, with their old-world charm and the air of intellectual salons they exude. On my second evening in the city, I stumble upon Caffè San Marco. Drawn in by the bookstore and enticed by the dinner menu, I quickly find myself swept into conversation with the charismatic owner, Alexandros Delithanassis. He is entertaining a group of regulars, and before I know it, they’ve all migrated to my table. Even the chef abandons the kitchen to join the animated discussion about literature, politics, and the upcoming Eurovision Song Contest.

They help translate for me from the local Triestine dialect, a unique blend of Venetian Italian with words from German and the Balkans (Slovenia is just a stone’s throw away). As a historic port city, Trieste has long been a crossroads of cultures, and its history of religious tolerance—once unique in Europe—left its mark. The Serbian Orthodox church, with its golden dome and bell towers, stands alongside the white towers of the Greek church, and the grand synagogue, one of the largest in Europe, still stands as a testament to that bygone era. Alexandros, fueled by wine and his passionate anti–Ukrainian War views, gestures fervently at his friends while proudly identifying their ethnic backgrounds. 'Serbian! Slovenian! Bosnian! Greek!' he declares, moving my cutlery to include the entire table in his animated gestures. 'When we speak in dialect, we are free!'

However, the subject of freedom remains a sore spot in Trieste, especially when it comes to Italian nationalism. One of the regulars, Tomaž, a retired headmaster from the Slovenian high school in Trieste, tells me that the city once had the highest concentration of Slovenian people in the world. But when Trieste became part of Italy in the 1920s, the Fascists arrived, persecuting the Slovenian population, burning the Slovene National Hall, banning their language, and purging them from public offices. This history is not one-sided: around Trieste are mass graves believed to hold the remains of hundreds of those who opposed the Yugoslav Communist Partisan army, which occupied the city for 40 days after World War II. Some groups continue to resist efforts to unearth the truth. It seems the wounds are still too raw to confront.

Tomaž’s Slovenian wife, Nadiya, whose parents lived through the oppression, is weary of rehashing the past. 'Trieste is the epitome of the absurdity of war,' she says. From the table, a chorus of 'Brava!' erupts. But this is a space where difficult conversations are welcomed, a place to confront the world as it is, not just as we wish it to be. Alexandros, on the other hand, is deeply committed to reviving the city’s tradition of openness and inclusivity, of creating a place for lofty ideals beneath these grand ceilings, which have long hosted the most ambitious ideas. 'The coffee beans make the coffee,' he proclaims, 'but the coffeehouse makes the democracy!'

And so the lively debate goes on well into the early morning hours, spurred on by the constant arrival of new bottles of wine every time anyone mentions leaving. Closing time doesn’t exist here—it’s merely an excuse to play Balkan folk music. We rise from the table, drape our arms over one another’s shoulders, shout 'opa!' and do our best to avoid stepping on each other’s feet while attempting to dance.

No. 4: Trieste → Graz, Austria

146 miles

A few days later, the train pulls out of Trieste and curves along the Adriatic coastline, passing the fairy-tale white towers of Miramare Castle and rows of mussel beds dotting the shoreline. As we venture inland over the Karst Plateau, a story from a recent conversation with a new friend surfaces in my mind. She had hiked through these wooded hills and stopped in a village where the river marked the boundary of Italian territory. One local told her that, in the early 20th century, crossing the bridge to the Slovenian side was considered dangerous—despite the fact that everyone there had friends and family on both sides.

Hard borders, soft borders, open borders. Europe’s borders may have been shaped by wars, but you can’t truly understand the continent through lines on a map. The ink smudges and spills, much like the movement of people—trading, fleeing, marching, or settling down. I had naively thought that my path through Maribor, Graz, and Vienna was a personal choice. In truth, I was following an ancient trade route, one that carried goods from Trieste to its Austrian rulers for centuries. The railway line I’m traveling on today replaced that road in the mid-1800s—shaping my journey as it has countless others before me.

I pass through Ljubljana, often hailed as one of Europe’s most laid-back capitals, before spending the night in Maribor, Slovenia’s second-largest city, which is even more relaxed. Graz, an hour to the north, is the opposite of Trieste—an Austrian city that yearns to be Italian, where the pizza rivals the schnitzel. Perhaps this is why I keep mistakenly greeting people with 'buongiorno' instead of 'grüß gott.' Or maybe it’s just my endless struggle with language. I’ve spent the trip awkwardly blurting out 'por favor' to Italian waiters and 'danke' to Slovenian ticket inspectors. The most humbling part of this journey has been the constant reminder of my linguistic shortcomings. Everywhere I go, I’m greeted with fluent, smiling English and the subtle but unmistakable sense that it’s probably their third language.

On my second day in Graz, I embark on a food tour—after all, this city is Austria’s culinary capital, influenced by the Mediterranean climate of the surrounding region. During the tour, I bond with my guide, David, over a scoop of pumpkin seed oil ice cream. Later, he invites me to a house party where his friends are gathering to watch the Eurovision Song Contest finals. This annual pop spectacle has been drawing nearly every European into its whirlwind since 1956. Think of it as The X Factor, but with eccentric costumes and real-time political drama woven into the performances.

At a cramped apartment near Graz’s university, a dozen of us crowd onto the upper landing where the hosts have set up a projector and piled together every chair and beanbag they own. Eurovision has always been a lively event, but with each country being judged by its peers, it becomes a peculiar form of diplomacy—a chance to gauge the political climate between nations. The U.K. is historically poor at the competition—we’ve come last five times in the last 20 years and last year we didn’t score a single point out of a possible 912.

I squeeze onto a two-person couch next to a couple who kindly translate the non-English songs for me. Giacomo from Italy and René from Austria, both with vested interests in the competition, are in high spirits as the acts perform and we drink more and more plum schnapps. They chat effortlessly in any of four languages, and I can’t help but feel a little envy for their multilingual ease. Perhaps out of pity for my one-language skills, they ask what the Norwegian entry is about—‘Give That Wolf a Banana’—which, despite the odd title, I’m excited to explain to them.

The U.K.’s entry is a solo artist with long hair and a substantial TikTok following. He performs a slightly Bowie-inspired song about space exploration. It's... fine. “He has a great voice!” says Giacomo, offering a much warmer review than I’d anticipated. “I love his beard,” René adds. I’m taken aback when they mention Brexit—a topic I’ve been hesitant to bring up during my trip, ashamed of how my country handled it. I had assumed Europe had long since wanted to be rid of the Brits. But instead of disdain, their tone is one of sadness. Giacomo admits he was so heartbroken that he cried. “We couldn’t believe it,” René says. “Britain has been such a core part of Europe’s history, and vice versa. It’s a massive loss for all of us.”

My own reaction had been to throw cushions in frustration. Yet today, it feels comforting to share this connection with Europeans over something that was meant to divide us. I tell them how much I regret losing my schoolgirl French and vow, more passionately than I expected, to start brushing up on it. It’s become clear to me that, beyond travel, the best way to preserve my European ties—to resist the unraveling of shared interests and history that Brexit represents—is by speaking a language that isn’t my own, with ease.

The votes come in. We toast to our collective favorites with more schnapps, and to my surprise, my TikTok Brit performs well. He ends up in second place, just behind Ukraine’s entry, which feels like a victory of solidarity that resonates with all of us. When the credits finally roll, the three of us stumble out into the night and board a tram—another thing that Europeans do better than anyone. Well, trams, not exactly stumbling onto them.

No. 5: Graz → Düsseldorf, Germany

576 miles

From Graz, I make my way to Vienna, where I catch the Nightjet, an overnight train that will carry me 560 miles to western Germany while I sleep. The train is supposed to arrive late in the morning, though I plan to disembark earlier in Bonn. That’s why I’m the first to retreat to my sleeper car, greeted with a cheerful “schlafen Sie gut!” from the steward. When my alarm rings at 5:30 a.m., I dress, wash up in my tiny sink, and stroll the length of the train, bumping into an apologetic conductor. “No, entschuldigung,” he says, “Bonn will not be the next stop. We’re three hours behind due to construction delays. May I bring you breakfast?”

Any irritation I might have melts away as soon as I glance out the window. Had we not run late, I would have missed the magical view of the Rhine winding its way through quaint villages bathed in morning light. Castles perched on cliffs, others nestled by the water’s edge, some tucked away in forests—it’s like a river cruise at breakneck speed, and I’m transfixed from my bunk, watching the world unfold outside.

At Bonn, I finally disembark, leaving the scenic route behind to catch a train with the daily commuters headed for Düsseldorf. No country today is more dedicated to the idea of a united Europe than Germany, fittingly so, given its borders with nine other nations. Like many cities across Europe, Düsseldorf is a product of postwar reconstruction, a symbol of how much the continent has transformed in recent decades. The city’s Königsallee boulevard, lined with luxury boutiques, contrasts sharply with the former factories now transformed into loft apartments, and its so-called ‘old town’ is, in fact, a modern reconstruction.

Despite Düsseldorf’s modern wealth and growth, traces of the rebellious energy that fueled the punk and electronica scenes in the 1970s still linger—if you know where to look. Klaus Rosskothen, a former graphic designer turned art dealer, has offered to be my guide. His gallery, Pretty Portal, sits on the quirky Brunnenstrasse, surrounded by independent shops: a slow fashion store, a Lebanese deli with a DJ every Friday, and a cozy café beside a cinema. The street itself is adorned with pots of edible plants, maintained by a retired botanist who looks after the greenery for the entire block.

On the wall outside Pretty Portal, a colorful mural depicts a masked woman, painted by Fin DAC—the street artist who also created a 200-foot-tall portrait of Frida Kahlo on a building in Mexico. Klaus, once a graffiti artist himself in the 1980s, has spent the last 15 years bringing top urban artists to Düsseldorf to leave their mark on the city.

Klaus drives me to the nearby district of Flingern, where we stop beside a supermarket with a mural of sculptor Joseph Beuys staring across the parking lot. The mural is one of Klaus’s many commissions by the Italian street artists Orticanoodles. But today, we’re here to explore Kiefernstrasse, a street covered in vibrant murals chosen and designed by the residents themselves. Once a hotbed of anarchy in the 1980s, when it was home to members of the radical Baader-Meinhof gang, the buildings are now a canvas for creativity, featuring works like a sprawling Chinese dragon and a house transformed into a giant crossword puzzle.

On the way back, we take a detour through MedienHafen, the harbor area that’s been redeveloped with contemporary architecture—buildings that vary in shape and color, each interacting uniquely with the others. I remark that it’s a fitting metaphor for Europe, and Klaus smiles in agreement. An avid Europhile, Klaus considers himself European first and German second. He enjoys how much more multicultural Düsseldorf is now compared to his childhood. ‘Maybe I’m a dreamer,’ he says, ‘but I like the idea of Europe, the courage it takes to have that vision, to pursue this kind of unity.’

Why does his speech stir something inside me? Is it the emotion of the moment, or is it simply that, after so many days of travel, my own perspective is starting to blur from exhaustion?

No. 6: Düsseldorf → London

297 miles

As I cross into the Netherlands the next day, I swear I see a dozen shiny sousaphones lined up in formation on a loading dock. But before I can confirm, the industrial landscape around me melts into open fields where cows lounge in the sun like oversized pets. Amsterdam’s streets are no less surreal—its towering, crooked buildings seem ready to topple over me as I walk beneath them. On the streets, cyclists swarm from all directions, and I’m starting to feel more like a character in a video game than a visitor in Europe.

I make it to a few iconic museums where I listen to the many voices of global visitors like myself. In the 17th and 18th centuries, Britain’s Grand Tourists embarked on journeys far longer than mine, visiting cultural hubs like Athens, Rome, and Paris. But they traveled in more leisurely circumstances, likely with servants to carry their luggage. We do share something in common, though: the purpose of these journeys was to educate young aristocrats about the history, culture, and politics of the wider world—to help them understand Britain’s place within it and appreciate the roots of the values they held dear.

The Low Countries are compact and close-knit. From Amsterdam, it only takes two hours to reach Antwerp, Belgium. After arriving, I greet the hotel receptionist with a big smile and a mouthful of poorly accented French. The receptionist looks at me, confused, and asks if we can speak English. It turns out that Antwerp is in the Dutch-speaking part of Belgium.

I’m staying in one of Antwerp’s up-and-coming creative districts, a car-free area known as the Green Quarter. This vibrant neighborhood is full of breweries, restaurants, and design studios, and it takes me a couple of days before I finally venture into the historic city center. When I do, I’m struck by the familiarity of the architecture—the sweeping facades that fill cobblestone squares exude a kind of offbeat grandeur that makes you smile rather than feel intimidated.

On the south side of Antwerp’s fashionable shopping streets, I stumble upon the 16th-century church of St. Andrew, where the priest kindly offers to give me a tour. Inside, the grand, carved pulpit spreads across the nave like a massive tree, though Father Rudi only preaches from it a few times a year. He’s more interested in modern additions, like a gown by Belgian designer Ann Demeulemeester, which now drapes the statue of Mary, or the 2002 reconstruction of the Altar of the Minters. “We put it in when Belgium joined the Euro,” he tells me.

Father Rudi turns out to be deeply passionate about the concept of unity—whether it’s about shared values or communities that span across borders. He shows me a series of city guides that his parishioners helped put together, and hands me the one that he thinks will interest me most, titled ‘How British Is Antwerp?’

The guidebook tells the story of Antwerp through the lens of British influence and figures—‘so you’ll feel more at home here,’ Father Rudi explains. ‘Mary Stuart’s ladies-in-waiting, along with other Catholic exiles, came here as refugees. English wool merchants helped make Antwerp a prosperous city. So many different nationalities have shaped our history—Norwegian, Danish, Irish...’ He adds, ‘We created these city guides as a way to offer hospitality, to show a different side of nationalism, one that puts it into perspective.’ He laughs and adds, ‘Sometimes it’s easier to get along with people from farther away than with your next-door neighbors.’

I’ve never thought of Belgians as neighbors before, but the three-hour train ride from Antwerp to London is quicker than the journey from London to Edinburgh, a city I’ve visited many times and where I feel a real sense of connection with its people. As my train leaves for home the next day, with Father Rudi and all my new friends left behind, I know I’ll return soon. It’s been reassuring to discover that I’m still welcomed in Europe, but even more so to realize that I’m now considered part of the family.