By Scott Graber
It is Monday, early, and I have my coffee — a mild, medium roast that is a pleasant change from the caffeine-fueled bang that comes with the dark, Robusta (Death Wish) bean.
This morning, my thoughts are on early morning departures that once required finding of one’s passport, toothbrush and change of underwear without waking one’s spouse.
Those dimly lit departures were, of course, before cell phones, laptops and devices that counted our steps. One might have had to search for one’s Timex and, of course, one’s plastic container of Tic Tac breath mints.
In those long-gone days before 9/11 there was no reason to get to the airport an hour before departure — you only needed to get to the gate before they gave your seat to a standby.
Recently, however, The New Yorker revealed there has been an explosion in the number of private, members-only airport lounges. Now, passengers are arriving early but not for TSA — but rather seeking a Lavassa Super Crema Espresso, a flaky, fresh-baked cornetti and, of course, a sense of importance.
These private lounges have been around for years — who can forget Bill Murray’s parody of an airport lounge singer doing a haunting rendition of “Havin’ My Baby?”
“I’m a woman in love and I love what its doin’ to me …”
These rooms come with showers, slippers and a buffet that is a distinct notch beyond the make-your-own-waffle model at Holiday Inn Express. But, of course, the real draw is the sense of privilege and one’s removal from the unintelligible announcements of delayed flights.
“What the hell did she say, Babs? Was that our flight that’s been delayed in Indianapolis?
I have no clue, Raymond.
For God’s sake, Babs, you know my hearing aides don’t work in these places.”
Buying one’s way into these sleek rooms is not cheap and today there is a whole new hierarchy of deference for those wanting an escape from the tangible, palpable sense of despair that comes when thousands of standing-up passengers are jammed into a single room where everyone is wondering if they are going to get home before midnight.
And now, in the 12/8/25 New Yorker, we read that football stadiums now come with a panoply of luxury options that will get one away from the bare-bellied, face-painted, general admission crowd. I’m talking, of course, about the “sky box suites” that are now a huge, money making fixture at every stadium.
“We began at the Gallager Garden and the Toyota Patio Club, on the upper level, then we walked down to the Google Cloud Club, and then to the Wynn Club, the most exclusive at the stadium, which serves the patrons of what are known as the owner’s suites. Along the way the burgers became sliders, which became beef sliced from the bone in front of you; chips and popcorn gave way to nacho and chicken tenders and finally to sushi; plain old hot dogs became celebrity-chef takes on the hot dog …” writes John Seabrook in describing the new SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles.
The problem, of course, is that these places — sometimes called “Experience Centers” — are way beyond the budget of most fans.
“The other twenty-four owner’s suites, twelve on each side of the stadium, form the richest layer of the money torte. The suites are elevated to overlook the sideline, with more than ample catering and mingling spaces reportedly for around a million dollars a year with at least a ten year commitment.”
This means the rest of the crowd is relegated to a regular seat or a “club seat” allowing the holder to “an exclusive area within the concourse offering superior food and drink.”
“At SoFi a club seat can cost as much as $2,000 a game, and a suite can go as high as fifty thousand dollars a game.”
In the year 69 CE Vespasian built the Roman Colosseum using profits made from the destruction of the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. There was seating for 50,000 toga-wearing men with the Senators having ring-side seats with the Equestrians sitting just behind them. “At the very top — more than 50 meters from the arena, you reached the poorest, the women and the slaves,” (Emperor of Rome, Mary Beard, Page 258).
It would be about 1,900 years before Roy Hofheinz installed 50 “skyboxes” at his new Astrodome, “turning the least desirable seats into the most expensive and coveted spots in the house.”
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.
