Schoeneman, Grigoriadis, and Blumin in 2010 at Round Hill Resort.
Courtesy of Vanessa Grigoriadis
Thus began one of my life’s great friendships, proceeding through many more ripostes, a decade of shared living space, and the birth of two kids each. Jen became wildly successful by turning vacant institutional buildings into heart-stopping event spaces, and even landed the contract for New York Fashion Week at the old post office across from Pennsylvania Station. The love of her life and father of her children, the architect James Ramsey, conceived of an idea with Dan Barasch, another Cornell chum, to create a “low line” under the old Delancy Street trolley terminal, and for a while it seemed like that was going to happen. But the relationship fell apart, and then things move very fast in my memory: Jen started to say she disliked New York City and wanted to live full time in the North Fork, a new boyfriend showed up, now she was moving to Puerto Rico for the climate and tax breaks, then she and the boyfriend were buying a private plane to fly direct from Puerto Rico to Islip, NY.
When I heard about this new acquisition by my far-more successful friend, I have to admit I thought it sounded rad. Private planes occupy an almost mystical place in our culture. You’re up in the skies, free of seatmates chomping tuna sandwiches or annoyances like last-minute checked bags. You’re watching the clouds drift by, close enough to touch God. So what if her plane wasn’t the fanciest! It was still glamorous. As former Vanity Fair editor Tina Brown wrote on her Substack, everyone wants to be your friend when you have a plane: “The late TV legend Barbara Walters used to lament the necessity to vacation every year with the crass termagant CEO of a bra company just because said termagant happened to own her own plane.”
For the wealthy, private planes, which have become increasingly popular as a mode of transportation in recent years, aren’t only the ultimate in seclusion, but also the ultimate in spontaneity. You’re in a power position that’s completely the reverse of commercial flights, which reduce you to helpless nose-boned chattel. If you’re paying the bill, most decisions are controlled by you: You decide when you leave, who to invite, what to eat (certainly not pretzels and ginger ale), and whether there’s space for your three bulldogs.
