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When your baseline is a pied-a-terre in the Eighth, a compound in the Caribbean staffed by those who know you as a person rather than a reference, and a villa where the cook has been with the family for long enough to know the ins and outs of every intolerance, the calculus of a trip changes.
You’re not upgrading. Quite the reverse: in a sense you’re accepting functional reduction in exchange for something that the things you own can’t provide. Does that mean the world’s most…
