Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent (15 page)

21. STRESSMAS VACATION

Trying to Relax Without a Lounge Chair, Dinner Reservation, or Tennis Slot

IT HAD BEEN MANY YEARS
since I’d been to an event on the St. Regis rooftop, the last one being my very own wedding to Dana, oh so many moons ago. It was a balmy afternoon this past October when we returned to celebrate a dear friend’s family event at an elegant luncheon. We once again found ourselves in the Fabergé-style ballroom, which by day felt like being on the set of
The Prince and the Showgirl
, although Olivier was not in attendance.

The conversation at our table turned to the holidays. I leaned in to talk with a formidable businessman who is as smart as he is efficient. “And what are your plans?” I asked, taking a taste of the silky mousseline.

He mentioned a well-known island resort.

“Have you been there before?” I inquired.

“It’s our fourth year, which helps.”

“Helps? How so?” My ears perked up.

“Everything is booked a year in advance. If you want your rooms, your tennis, your restaurant reservations, spa services, you have to do it all the
moment
it opens up. My secretary calendarizes it,” he explained.

As his chic and engaging wife returned to the table and placed her minaudière next to her setting, she smiled knowingly while picking up her mimosa.

“Remember when we used to go to Anguilla year after year, and when Giorgio (not his real name) would come to New York, everyone would rush to take him out to Cipriani and Elios?” she recalled.

“Who is Giorgio?” I asked.

“Giorgio was head of the pool and beachfront, and if you wanted the best lounge chair setups in the prime location, you needed to butter him up.” She smiled sagely.

“Giorgio sounds like one lucky guy.”

“We took him out to Sette Mezzo, but the so-and-sos went to the next level—dinner
and
a cashmere sweater from Bergdorf.
They
got the prime spot and cabana the next year.” She sighed.

“This actually happened?”

“Don’t be naïve. It’s all a year in advance and about greasing palms,” she said, munching on an asparagus tip. “Or you get nothing, darling, positively
nothing
.”

Whether it’s escaping the northeast for St. Barths, Anguilla, Aspen, or Miami, it always appeared that the vacations were stressful until you got there. Now it’s worse when you arrive. Perhaps the greatest misconception of all surrounding the holidays is that it is actually a
vacation
.

“You spend half your net worth getting wherever you’re going,” a good friend said over tequila and orange slices in front of his crackling fireplace. “And then when you finally get to the resort, you’re tired and hungry, and you check with the front desk for a reservation. The concierge says, ‘It’s
all booked
for dinner,’ and they have
nothing
available.”

“This actually happened?” I said.

“Of course.”

“What did you do?”

“I complained, and they finally set up a table for us for dinner—in the lobby,” he said.

An erudite advertising executive had this to say over a lubricated
Mad Men
–style working lunch at Circo: “It’s not a vacation, it’s an emotional reckoning.” He swirled his glass of La Scolca Gavi di Gavi. “You’re told to be happy and to relax, and
that’s
what creates the stress. It’s the idea that it should be wonderful. You’re supposed to be joyous and thankful, and when you ask yourselves those questions, you come up short. … Do you think we can order another bottle?”

Besides in-law and family stress—“My in-laws command everyone to eat at five thirty, and since they’re paying …”—the number one complaint among those I spoke to was not being able to secure a well-situated lounge chair, if any at all, without having to shell out thousands. “How can I be spending all that money on a vacation and not have a place to sit?” was a common refrain. The idea of having to set an alarm to save a lounge chair seemed to rile everyone, while stretches of chairs staked out with Havaianas, month-old magazines, sunglasses, and paperbacks sent people into veritable fits.

“It’s absolutely ridiculous,” a Park Avenue matron said at the bar at Sant Ambroeus. I had stopped in for an afternoon espresso while she was ordering a Negroni.

“I shouldn’t have to tip to get a lounge chair. It
should
be included! You have these people saving twelve lounge chairs at a time; no one uses them, and then the moment you try and take one, suddenly an angry housewife from New Jersey appears and screams, ‘It’s taken!’ like a skunk marking its territory. That’s the
main reason
we bought the house in Palm Beach. It’s well located with a pool and beach access, but best of all, I have six
glorious
lounge chairs awaiting me each and every day, and they’re all
mine
, M-I-N-E,” she said like a woman possessed, her vintage Verdura cuffs raised in a victory sign.

“
If you’re going to succeed, you have to have a
system
,” a curvaceous social powerhouse
said over dinner at the Mark. “Really, it’s all about communication and tipping.”

“So what’s your secret to success?” I queried, sampling the tuna tartare.

“If you choose to go to a hotel or resort over Christmas, you have to make yourself known and
early
.”

“Meaning?”

“Before I even unpack my bags, I go down to the pool and find the
main
guy.”

“How do you find the main guy, and how much does it take to succeed?”

“The main guy is always the busiest with the most
expensive
sunglasses. Whereas people in the States tip at the
end
, I tip before. Of course, I ask if he’s going to be there tomorrow, because why tip someone who’s going on a day off?”

“She has her system down pat.” Her tycoon husband beamed.

“I might give him a hundred-dollar bill the first day. Then I get the six lounge chairs, umbrellas, the romaine and shrimp cocktail set up, sparkling water, of course all before lunch. Then I might still give one hundred dollars the next day and gradually start handing out fifties.”

“Her system works,” the husband marveled. “And don’t forget the tennis time. The prime slot is eight. Seven is too early, and nine is too hot.”

“That’s all well and good,” she said, sipping a white wine spritzer. “But a good vacation is all about a great lounge setup with your girlfriends and great people watching.”

Some resorts have started to restrict seating to only one lounge chair per guest and one umbrella per every two chairs. Many New York vacationers feel it’s long overdue.

“There was a family I knew who many years ago went to Mexico on a vacation, and their parents and another family’s parents got into a fistfight over lounge chairs,” a childhood friend said over dinner. “Many years later, the daughter got engaged, and both sets of in-laws were going to meet for the first time.”

“And?” I said with bated breath.

“And when they met, it was the same two families!”

“What happened?” I said, taking some of the gigande beans and marouli salad.

“They actually called off the wedding!”

“No, that must be an
urban
legend!” I said emphatically.

“Perhaps in New York, but not in
Scarsdale
,” she explained, sipping her sauvignon blanc.

Later that week, I was having lunch with a well-known television executive at Michael’s, where chicken paillard, a table in the epicenter, and a visit from Michael himself anoints one as a member of the media elite. The executive himself, who is extremely funny and observant, has been on the vacation circuit for many years with his family and has navigated the rough seas of holiday vacation planning.

“The arms race for the holiday season has begun,” he declared. “It’s not just the choosing availability; these days, it seems there’s
itinerary
competition
on who can go to the most arcane and far-flung places. The children all talk to each other: ‘I’m going on safari, I’m going to the rain forest, I’m seeing the Great Wall.’”

“Around the world in eight days,” I said.

“At this point, in order to go somewhere different, I’d have to tell people I’m taking my children to the green line in Iraq,” he said.

“Most of the kids I see on vacation are texting the whole time anyway,” I offered, thinking back to historic locations and visions of uninterested children, eyes glued to their devices instead of the monumental landmarks.

All this talk put a damper on my holiday mood until I took my sister, Susan, and her husband, Rob, out for dinner at Elio’s to celebrate her birthday. As we were toasting her over chicken scarpariello and fried zucchini, my sister explained her point of view.

“We’re just going to the beach house for the holiday,” she said, referencing her small but extremely chic beach cottage. “We’ll bundle up, light a fire. We’ll take a beach walk on New Year’s Day.”

“Sounds divine,” Dana said.

“And then when it’s over, I’ll just open the car door and drive back to the city.”

“That’s better than standing in line to take off your shoes and put your laptop in a plastic tray,” I said, thinking of our own 6:30 a.m. holiday flight.

“You know,” she said, “we just don’t travel over the Christmas and New Year’s holidays anymore. It’s way too stressful. The weather’s really not great in the Caribbean or Florida, and why do I want to see all those people you see in New York? But you all can!”

I motioned the waiter over. “Can you bring me a refill?” I pointed to my martini glass.

“Don’t worry, Richard,” my wife said, patting my hand. “Maybe after it’s all over, we can plan a weekend ordering in Chinese food, watching
Homeland
, and having a
real
vacation.”

“Let’s book it now,” I pleaded. “So I have something to look forward to—after the trip.”

22. BLING VERSUS THE BONG

St. Barths Versus Jamaica—and What It Says About You

FRAMED TECHNICOLOR IMAGES
of the speldiferous Ursula Andress in her iconic white bikini, attendant conch knife, and the swarthy Sean Connery from the Bond classic
Dr. No
greet guests on the way to dinner at the divine GoldenEye, Chris Blackwell’s Caribbean five-star fantasy on Jamaica’s remote and lush north coast. The movie was filmed in Jamaica and made the blond bombshell an international star, not to mention my friend Chris very happy, although he doesn’t fully kiss and tell.

I had arrived in Jamaica for an advertising shoot for my aviation client, Wheels Up. Chris, my partner and namesake in Blackwell Fine Jamaican Rum and a Wheels Up aficionado, had agreed to appear in the advertising campaign we were shooting at the Ian Fleming International Airport. Chris generously hosted a pre-shoot dinner at his outdoor restaurant, which occupies a promontory overlooking the treetops, a suspension bridge, and the secluded beachfront crescent in the distance. The cicadas were background music to the vintage reggae, and we could easily imagine we were on safari or in the jungles of East Asia as we sat alfresco sampling fresh spiced snapper and pineapple rice and hot fluffy rolls with three types of flavored homemade butter.

Jamaica conjures … but GoldenEye, the former home of Ian Fleming, inspires.

Chris, the mastermind behind keeping GoldenEye the Caribbean’s chicest and most low-key, barefoot resort, greeted a few under-the-radar and sophisticated guests. I call them
hippies with a bank book
;
there’s always an assortment of dressed-down movie and rock stars and smart, European couples who
read actual books
on the beach. Dinner is always a quiet affair, without the boisterous and often grotesque behavior on display at other Caribe resorts … where men in loud silk shirts quarrel about the location of their tables.

“We have a group of [Iron Curtain potentates] arriving next week,” Chris said, sighing at the thought, his Harrovian accent deflecting a bit of disappointment. “I’m certain they won’t like it,” he said in the concerned tone of an honest parent.

“What will they do here?” a chic Italian ex-pat asked, frowning at the idea, unable to process their arrival or their intention.

“I’m not sure. But they most definitely will not like it,” he said in his soft, clipped voice.

“Why is that?” I asked, knowing the answer all too well.

“There’s not enough
bling
for them.”

Dana and I had agreed to a dinner a few months earlier and met the couple at the bar of an overcrowded UES Italian standard where they keep guests waiting, although one has a solid reservation. I had wanted to decline the dinner invitation but Dana insisted, letting me know the wife (who was working alongside Dana in a charity) would take offense to too many a declined invite. This would not have been our first.

“Where are you for Christmas vacation?” the husband, a diminutive financier, asked once we were finally seated. His diamond cuff links reflected his wife’s ten-carat diamond studs, creating a blinding ray of light directed at the fried zucchini. It was hard to hear above the grating din.

“Where are
you
going?” I asked, knowing Jerome (not his real name) wanted to tell me his itinerary first, as finance men usually do.

“We
always
go St. Barths for Christmas,” Jerome boasted. “I always take the [enormously expensive beachfront villa] at [fabled and expensive St. Barths hotel].”

“Jerome always wants to rent a house,” the wife declared, her diamond pavé Rolex weighing down her anorexic wrist as she lifted one zucchini stick like a barbell. “I’m just stuffed,” she declared, excusing herself from having to eat anything else. “But I always tell him that the house renters are just cheapskates and to ante up for the beachfront hotel suite,” she exclaimed.

“How ’bout you all? Where are you going?” Jerome asked.

“Jamaica,” I said.

“Jamaica???” He looked a bit horrified “How could you go
there
?
I went once and I never went back. I didn’t feel safe.”

“Why is that?”

“Because there are too many natives.”

“As opposed to St. Barths where you only see transplanted French socials on
quatre quatre
s?” I countered.

“Yes, that’s why I like it,” the wife said. “I don’t have to feel bad or stay hidden behind walls.” She clutched her bag, as if someone from Jamaica were going to snatch it in a cloud of reefer madness.

“I have been going to Jamaica for twenty years, and Dana and I have gone everywhere and we never had a problem. They have had issues with crime in certain areas, but overall, if you are cool with people, they are cool with you. The Jamaican people are the world’s nicest people. So lovely.”

“We love going down the Martha Brae River on a bamboo raft. They chill Red Stripe in the water and it’s supercold,” Dana said, smiling at the memory.

“We don’t drink beer. Only rosé champagne,” Jerome stated without humor.

“And the food is the best. I love jerk anything,” Dana soldiered on.

“Jerome can’t handle spice. He gets dyspepsia,” his wife revealed.
A bit too much information,
I thought while envisioning Jerome in the bathroom, agonizing over a jerk snapper.

“Do you actually take your children?” Jerome asked incredulously.

“My kids love it there. I took them to climb Dunn’s River Falls and it was out of
Blue Lagoon.”

“Well, we would never go there,” the wife said firmly.

“Different strokes for different folks. I would never go to St. Barths over Christmas vacation.” I decided to engage.

“Well, you would if you had our accommodations,” Jerome said defensively.

I threw all caution to the wind, sensing a fight.

“Actually, my friend is an investor in the hotel and we would very well get the accommodation if we wanted.” I raised an eyebrow at Dana, signaling it was time to get the check.

As we swilled coffee and rose to our feet, we all knew that dinner was a one-time affair. While Jerome was helping his wife on with her chocolate sable chubby, I heard him say, “These people are crazy. Who in our crowd loves
Jamaica
?”

There comes a certain point in your life when taste differentiates. You say
po
tatoes and I say po
ta
toes, but at the end of the day you’re either OK with consuming carbs or not. Sometimes in life, there are markers that exist as a filter, a way to sort things out. I have come to view Jamaica love as one such filter, a meter of connection, affiliation, and shared taste. To be truthful, if you prefer France over Italy or St. Barths over Jamaica, chances are we’re
not
going to be besties. Of course, there are a few exceptions to the rule. But for the most part, it
ain’t
going to happen, mon. You’re either a disciple of “the bong” and all that encompasses or you’re a slave to “the bling.”

“We are definitely separated at birth,” one of my closest friends, Jay, declared over organic salmon at the Downtown restaurant we frequent weekly and that I choose not to reveal lest we lose our regular table (and secret dish). The eponymous
über
menswear designer had just returned from a long weekend in Jamaica with his wife. We were bonding over our shared Jamaica experiences as only best friends in our circle could do.

“I saw this awful New York couple going down on the same flight with me.” He described a highly annoying couple and their children, and their tedious, pretentious behavior.

“I asked them if they made the wrong flight.” He laughed, suggesting to me he thought they may have missed their flight to Ibiza or St. Barths. We both laughed when I told him that given his colorful description, I actually knew who they were. I pulled up a random Google photo, to his delight—and horror.

“I have to have a house there.” Jay declared, his serious collection of man bracelets sporting a few new green, black, and yellow woven wristbands. Jay and his wife love GoldenEye, but also favor the dramatic cliffs of Negril.

“The energy in Jamaica is unlike that on any other island I have ever been to.” He shrugged. “You feel like when they speak you’re listening to music even when they’re not singing. There’s a constant smell of weed, the water, and Rastas. Overall, I see really happy people.”

“It’s the one place I go to get my groove back,” I add.

“I feel so chill there. Coming from a city where so few people have real style, everyone has style there no matter how much money they have.”

“How many times do you go there a year?”

“As many times as I can. It’s one hundred percent authentic. Other islands are totally manufactured, trying to appeal to tourists. Jamaica is not manufactured fun.”

“What’s your favorite thing about it?”

“The people. They appreciate life so much more than any other place I have ever been. They’re passionate and also ageless. It’s hard to tell how old they are.”

“Without plastic surgery à la New York or LA. Why do you think that is?”

“They’re different. They’re
happy.
They’re
high on life
.”

There will always be couples who cannot agree on décor or vacation destinations. I have learned the outcome is never pretty.

Dana and I were out with good friends at Orsay, enjoying the
frites.

“We would love to come with you to Jamaica,” the husband—a down-to-earth and good-natured fellow—said as I told them a vacation anecdote.

“GoldenEye is a dream,” I said. “We just chill and read, and Dana loves to kayak in the lagoon.”

“What about shopping?” the wife said. “Any luxury boutiques?”

“They do have really nice local handmade batik cover-ups,” Dana offered. “And a bracelet with a marijuana plant on it.”

“I can’t go anywhere where they don’t have great shopping. That’s why I love St. Barths. It has all the best brands,” the wife declared.

“Honey, all you do is shop in the same stores in New York and Europe. Maybe it would be good to do something a bit different,” the husband chided her.

“Why?” She looked at him like he needed to be checked into a mental institution.

“I’m with Dana. I would like to have an active vacation,” he explained.

“Well then, marry
her
! My exercise is using my black card,” she stated firmly.

“You actually might like it. The water in the lagoon is aqua,” Dana explained. “My favorite thing is to take a shower
au naturel
under the palm tree.”

“Wait. There are outdoor bathrooms?” The wife paled. “I like a clean, white marble, indoor bathroom.”

“It’s really another way to enjoy the incredible nature,” Dana said. I looked at the wife and saw this wasn’t going to end well.

“The best is you sleep under a net,” I said. “It’s very
Jungle Book
. But I will say,
it’s not for everyone
.”

“Sounds amazing,” the husband said dreamily.

“A net?????” the wife said in a shrill tone. “No marble bathroom? Why do they need a net?”

“Because you’re in a natural environment.”

“It says bugs to me. There is NO WAY I AM GOING there.” She was becoming apoplectic at the thought.

“Come on, honey. It sounds perfect,” the husband said more forcefully as he saw his dreams being dashed before his eyes.

“And every morning, a rooster comes and wakes you up at six a.m. It’s like being on a farm near the sea.” Dana couldn’t help herself at this point.

“A
rooster
?
Are you kidding me?” The wife’s mouth was agape.

“And only flats; you can’t rock your Louboutins on the coral stairs,” Dana explained.

“This sounds like my worst nightmare,” the wife said.

“We love it, but if it’s not for you, you can call [five-star hotel chain where every resort in every country is exactly the same]. We stay there sometimes too. Why rock the boat?” I offered to the husband, not wanting to be the source of a matrimonial dispute.

“Whatever.” The husband sighed in a disappointed fashion. “We’ll just go to the [five-star chain]. I’ll play golf and drink tequila.”

The Famous Basketball Star had flown into New York, and Carol, my assistant, had set up drinks with him and one of my lead investors at the taproom in one of New York’s most conservative Manhattan clubs. A tie and a blazer are necessary for admittance, and since the Basketball Star is a man of style, I thought he would enjoy a haunt where no jeans or sneakers are allowed. We settled into the paneled room, replete with hunting scenes, faded red leather, and wooden seating. Whiskey and martinis were served by older professional men in white dinner jackets and the meeting with Carl (not his real name), my Australian investor and finance partner, was warm and cordial. I knew he would be catching a train back to Westchester since he was just joining us for drinks. After tippling at the bar and Carl taking leave, I broached the subject of dinner. I hadn’t known where to take the Basketball Star to dinner and had Carol make a number of reservations. It wasn’t meant as a personality test, just as a few viable options he might enjoy, as he was in from out of town and I wanted him to be happy.

“I made a few reservations for dinner tonight,” I offered, downing the last remnants of my martini.

“Any place is good with me,” he said congenially.

“Since you’re in from LA, we have choices: I thought we can go to the Upper East bistro [tony and sceney restaurant where millionaires and billionaires and their consorts hang], or sushi at [sceney and pricey West Side famed sushi restaurant where reservations are scarce], or if you’re in the mood for a steak we can go to the [legendary and pricy Midtown steak house that caters to those who love a juicy strip and fried sides] or Miss Lily’s, a cool Jamaican joint that just opened on the Lower East Side.”

“Let’s go to Miss Lily’s,” he said immediately, his eyes sparkling at the thought of spicy jerk and rice. “That’s the one for me!”

“Perfect,” I said, admiring his decisive choice and phoning the car and driver to take us downtown.