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TRAVEL...

I love the hour before takeoff, that stretch of no time, no home but the gray vinyl seats linked like unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall be summoned to the gate, soon enough there’ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers and perforated stubs—but for now I can look at these ragtag nuclear families with their cooing and bickering or the heeled bachelorette trying to ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s exhausted mother waiting to be called up early while the athlete, one monstrous hand asleep on his duffel bag, listens, perched like a seal trained for the plunge. Even the lone executive who has wandered this far into summer with his lasered itinerary, briefcase knocking his knees—even he has worked for the pleasure of bearing no more than a scrap of himself into this hall. He’ll dine out, she’ll sleep late, they’ll let the sun burn them happy all morning —a little hope, a little whimsy before the loudspeaker blurts and we leap up to become Flight 828, now boarding at Gate 17. *Rita Dove, 1953

LUX CONCIERGE

FordTress’ LUX Concierge service was designed from our clients demands for exclusivity and discreetness as they travel and vacation.

LUX is one-of-a-kind service.

 

We work under the radar, go against the grain and get the job done with honesty, integrity and tenacity.

 

We spend time on our clients; not money on extraneous expenses that do not directly benefit them.

 

LUX exists because you do.

 

We are not here to give you a lifestyle (something you already have).

 

We are here to enhance it.  Surprise it.  Make it more enjoyable. 

More seamless.

 

When you become a FordTress client, you not only gain a trusted service and a proactive team of passionate experts, you gain a partner and advocate in your life.  You gain value. It is our pleasure to be a value to you!

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VACATION

I love the hour before takeoff, that stretch of no time, no home but the gray vinyl seats linked like unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall be summoned to the gate, soon enough there’ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers and perforated stubs—but for now I can look at these ragtag nuclear families with their cooing and bickering or the heeled bachelorette trying to ignore a baby’s wail and the baby’s exhausted mother waiting to be called up early while the athlete, one monstrous hand asleep on his duffel bag, listens, perched like a seal trained for the plunge. Even the lone executive who has wandered this far into summer with his lasered itinerary, briefcase knocking his knees—even he has worked for the pleasure of bearing no more than a scrap of himself into this hall. He’ll dine out, she’ll sleep late, they’ll let the sun burn them happy all morning —a little hope, a little whimsy before the loudspeaker blurts and we leap up to become Flight 828, now boarding at Gate 17.

* RITA DOVE, 1953

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