Photo courtesy of PS
I am eating caviar on toast at 10 am. I am sipping champagne. I am doing these things in a private suite before my flight out of Hartsfield-Jackson. This utterly ruinous experience is courtesy of PS ATL, the Atlanta airport’s standalone private terminal.
Photo courtesy of PS
The PS ATL experience is not inexpensive. All-access members pay a $4,850 annual fee, then $3,550 for up to four people to enjoy a private suite before their flight. Non-members pay $4,850 for the same. There are less expensive (though still pricey) options for those who opt for PS’s salon, or high-end lounge. Currently, the only PS locations outside Atlanta are in Los Angeles and Paris.
PS costs a lot of money, but it delivers an entirely over-the-top experience. It’s located in its own standalone building, so I didn’t have to go anywhere near the main terminal. Once I arrived, I handed my luggage to a team of porters, who tagged it all and checked it onto my flight. Then, I gave my keys to the valets, who are not only keeping my car while I’m away—they’re detailing it too.
Now I’m ensconced in my private suite, complete with a large-screen TV, sleek couches, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the airport’s runways. My private bathroom is stocked with travel-sized shampoos and toothbrushes; the mini-fridge is jammed with sparkling water, beer, wine, and cheeses. On the marble countertops, there are baskets of chips, displays of ear buds and chargers, bowls of candy. All of it for the taking. (Why didn’t I bring an empty carry-on for this haul?)
Still nibbling on caviar, I peruse the menu for a proper meal. Just because it sounds cool, I opt for the chicken sausage and waffles with aerated bacon cream, bacon powder, and hot maple syrup. Why the heck not?
When my food arrives, I kick off my shoes, lean back into the couch, and savor bite after bite of my salty-sweet breakfast. I channel surf for a little while. I check the time. Ugh. My plane leaves soon. I pick up one of the suite’s empty “travel-snack” boxes and fill it with loot from the countertop: a bar of Atlanta-made Xocolatl chocolate, a bag of truffle potato chips, individually wrapped chocolate-chip cookies.
Then I hear a knock. “Ready to go through security?” PS ATL’s concierge asks.
I’m not, but I must, and the process is so simple it makes me laugh out loud. PS ATL has its own TSA security line, and getting through it takes exactly two minutes. Snack box in hand, I exit the security area and find myself in a carport where a black BMW awaits. It’s quite an experience driving through the airfields of the world’s busiest airport, passing 757s and ground-support equipment until we reach my Delta plane.
Photo courtesy of PS
“Here we are,” my driver tells me, even though it’s obvious, and I get out of the car. My plane looks massive from this vantage point. I climb a flight of stairs to the jet bridge entrance—the place right by the airplane door, where people check strollers. Then I make my way to my seat on the plane. I look out the window and see the BMW driving away. My upcoming vacation feels somewhat irrelevant; I’m pretty sure the best part of my trip just took place.
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