Hi from Miami, where it is something of a miracle that I have arrived at all. After Delta unceremoniously canceled my 7 a.m. flight, I spent an undisclosed number of hours at JFK attempting to fly standby on two subsequent flights, an experience so profoundly unsexy that I may never recover. By some divine intervention, I managed to get on the last flight to Miami before they grounded the planes. I will now be making a mad dash straight to dinner, where my companions, presumably expecting a reasonably put-together person, will instead be getting a woman who has spent the day negotiating with an airline. (Don’t blame me. Blame Delta.) A special hello to the very cute (and very tall) new RPS subscriber who sat next to me on the flight and proceeded to read several editions of this newsletter while I wrote this one. Nothing like having a live focus group at 35,000 feet. I hope the reviews were good.
Today’s newsletter may be one of my favorites RPS has put out in a long time, which, considering the news RPS has been breaking lately, is saying something. But there’s something about today’s particular mix that I especially love. We’ve got art, Palm Beach, private clubs in New York and London, the changing world of socialites, private jet culture, and because you people went absolutely batshit over the cat relocation manager job, I’ve found you something equally ridiculous: a private family hiring a six-figure personal assistant. For its spaniel.
But you know the deal. If you want all the juice, you’re going to have to make the jump.
