New York Times
By PHILIPPE BOURGUIGNON
BECAUSE of my job in hospitality, I’ve been traveling extensively for the past 40 years.
Philippe Bourguignon, the chief executive of Exclusive Resorts.
Q. How often do you fly?
A. I fly almost once a week, throughout the United States andEurope.
Q. What’s your least favorite airport?
A. Miami International. It takes forever to get through immigration, and once you pass through immigration it’s pretty chaotic. I have about a 90 percent chance of missing a connection.
Q. Of all the places you’ve been, what’s the best?
A. I never answer this question, and people ask me all the time. My favorite place depends on my mood and who I am with. I can be in the most beautiful country or city, but if I had a lousy time, it won’t be my favorite place. Or I may be in a city that no one really likes, but if I meet wonderful people, then I really like it. There is more to travel than the beauty of the landscape.
Q. What’s your secret airport vice?
A. I steal cookies from the lounges.
I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world. When I’m in the United States, I miss France. But when I’m in France, I miss my adopted country, the United States. It’s like having one foot on each side of the Atlantic.
People who fly as much as I do will have issues with business travel, but I never complain. I believe that if you complain, you have a greater chance of having a bad time. I’m not sure if this is statistically true, but it has been my experience.
I was raised in Morocco, and my dad worked for Caterpillar. When I was 12 years old, he took me with him to Peoria, Ill., the company’s headquarters. It was my first experience of the United States, and I have been a fan since then.
I was so excited because it was the first time I had taken a trip alone with my father. When we arrived, I didn’t understand why I didn’t feel well. Now, I know, that was my very first experience with jet lag. I’ve had too many to count since then.
But it was a wonderful trip. And I still remember eating my first hamburger at a McDonald’s. I loved it then, and still do now.
When you fly as much as I do, not all flights go smoothly. In the 1970s, I was on a flight from Casablanca to Paris. Upon takeoff, the plane flew into a large flock of birds. The pilot, not realizing the cockpit windshield was cracked, took the plane to 30,000 feet, and the windshield shattered.
This was the only time I have needed to use my oxygen mask because of a change in cabin pressure. The woman next to me was so frightened that when she finally let go of my arm I looked down to find blood seeping through my shirt.
More recently, I booked a private charter to the Caribbean to get to some meetings for Exclusive Resorts. Midway through the trip, we saw massive storm clouds looming ahead. I was relieved to see they were spaced with gaps, which I expected the pilot to fly through. Only, he did not. He flew directly into the first towering dark cloud. Immediately the plane was buffeted sharply, and rain began to leak into the cabin.
I was so happy when we emerged into clear sky again. But it was short-lived. The pilot quickly plunged us into the next cloud, where the winds seemed even stronger. I clung to the back of the seat ahead of me until we came out the other side.
When we landed, the pilot was the first one out of the plane. I saw him leaning against a fence, breathing heavily. I asked why he had taken us through not one, but two storm clouds. He said he was scared, but felt he needed the experience since he was still a trainee. I really didn’t know what to say.
A happier memory occurred many years ago when I had to travel from Paris to Los Angeles on ChristmasEve. My family was with me.
Just before my kids fell asleep, a man dressed asSanta Claus appeared, and said that he was flying by on his sleigh and knew that he needed to stop by to visit the good children on the flight.
My children’s eyes were as big as lollipops. They knew they had just met the “real” Santa Claus. They spent the rest of that flight looking out the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of the reindeer. I think I did, too.
By Philippe Bourguignon, as told to Joan Raymond. E-mail: Joan.raymond@nytimes.com.
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