We had read that Sri Lanka boast the “Most Scenic Railroad in the World.” Much to our taxi driver’s chagrin, we couldn’t miss out on that experience. So, after a breakfast involving a carefully presented three course meal on china custom printed with the hotel’s logo at the Noratake factory down the street, we bid our host goodbye and cut a gap through traffic with a rambunctious tuk-tuk delivery to the train station.

The station, built in 1862, is mysterious and bustling; dressed in a haze of morning mist, workers perched on track ties, old buildings, and the souls of our fellow travelers - eager tourists and local commuters alike. The smell in the air is a mix of morning dew, diesel smoke, and grease. A white gloved man in a grey station suit directs us to sit under the Platform #1 sign.

We nestle comfortably into seats in the shade and relax with time to spare until a few travelers next to us get up, walk down a long pathway, over a bridge, and into the jungle. A few more follow. Soon, suspicious glances are being cast from eye-to-eye.

“Where are they going?"

Murmurs of discontent circulate through the foreign crowd, certain we are lost, despite the fact that we are not those who wandered off into a jungle. Andrew and I find a train station manager who speaks enough English to confirm that we, too, should head into the jungle and a flock of wheeled suitcases begin to hum behind us.

Once we found the right platform, our train arrives on time and we board to find our third class seats pinned next to a narrow window that I hastily test to make sure I can still squeeze the entirety of my upper body for the sake of good photographs. Andrew and I negotiate a "watch schedule" to determine who gets to sit next to the window, when. And then, there is a crash of metal on metal as the train stretches forward and all the links between the cars catch and pull. Soon, the real life ticket taker is making his way down the aisle, punching a hole in each of our tickets to say we belong. I enjoy how stereotypical train-ticket-taker he seems to be. I’d have been disappointed with my experience otherwise, I suppose.

“Clackattah.....Clackattah..... Clackattah..Clackattah. Clackatta.Clack.Clack.Clack." As we chug away, the train heaves a whistle through its pursed lips. The wheels and tracks begin to sing together in the most expected, familiar train song you can imagine until we are speeding along with the wind blowing through our open window and green vines passing in a blurr.

“This is going to be great!” Andrew says as he peers out the window.

And, it was. The Sri Lankan train experience was everything promised. While our fellow train mates hung outside the windows and doors, we watched the world of Sri Lankan towns, tea plantations, vegetable gardens, pine forests, eucalyptus forests, and natural jungle clatter by.

As I hang out my own window like a puppy, I keep a lookout for the narrowing of my scenery and slink back to safety before tunnels suck us into their black hole. Inside a tunnel, the sound of the train changes. With metal wheels on metal tracks being pulled and pushed by two giant diesel engines on either side, the sound bounces and echos around the hollow tube and the train is screaming at top pitch.

As we exit, a cautionary toot-toot is blown, to warn any tea pickers we are about to emerge. No matter where we are in this long trip, it seems the whole countryside of people pause. People walking on footpaths along the side of the tracks, people standing in the doorway of houses, women taking a break from their work at the Milk Factory. Women holding small children point, and the babies all wave.

Sometimes we would pass through a train station without stopping, and a man in a brown uniform would stand next to the train with his arm out ready to catch a strange pouch with a loop over his wrist. It was fascinating to watch this handoff, and I can' only imagine it involves some sort of reporting from train engineer to crew at the station.

Every now and then, we would slow and pull to a stop in another historic train station. It was fascinating to have this brief pause to watch teams of railway people working, men and women leading children by the hand across the train platform, travelers chatting among each other dressed in their colorful saris and glistening gold hems. Men would climb aboard offering peanuts, samosas, drinks, or chocolate bars. Then, the train would yank to a start, settling all the links into place with a disconcerting clunk, and we would be off again to weave and roll around the gorgeous hillsides. From my seat in the train, I’m a part of it all, a traveler just like them, but a life so different from the one I know at home or at sea.

Eight hours later, we arrive in Ella - a small village seated in the Sri Lankan highlands. The temperature has cooled twenty degrees Fahrenheit, and after sitting so long, our legs were inspired to do some walking. We decline the tuk-tuk gauntlet, electing to walk from the train station to our hotel “Raveena” Inn, which we find - maybe not surprisingly - to be located on the opposite side of a large ravine we must traverse with our backpack and duffel bag. We are shown to a large room with our own private patio, a fridge stocked with chilly coco-cola and Lion Beer, and an exquisite view. Andrew cracks his beer, and we mull over the look of how\ our next couple days of exploration might shape up.