People ask why. The honest answer is that I like the feeling of the map moving under me at a speed I can follow. A plane is a jump cut. A train is the whole sentence.
The Sud Express leaves Lisbon late, which means you go to sleep in Portugal and wake up in Spain with the light coming in sideways over a landscape that looks like it was drawn with a dry brush. By Hendaye you have twelve minutes, a platform, and a coffee machine that only takes coins.
Paris was a walk between stations and one glass of wine I didn't need. Berlin was Tomek at Hauptbahnhof holding a spare bike like a bouquet. Kraków was my mother at the door, pretending she hadn't been standing there since the train left Katowice.
Total cost: about the same as flying, if you count the airport as somewhere you're forced to be. Total sketches: forty-one. Total regrets: none, unless you count the wine.