An aside: I’m curious what you think of when you imagine luxury. Is it space (as I seem to remember George Lucas suggested, meaning room, though, and not, like, The Milky Way)? Is it time? Security? Ergonomically perfect light switches and convenient USB ports?
I’ve been in and out of a few outrageously luxurious hotels and safari lodges on this trip (and overheard the moans and raves of others about the properties), and begun to wonder if, for a particular sort of traveler (Americans), “luxury” means simply comfort. A familiar homogeneity. The same flush and shower handle they have in their guest room of their holiday home, if you see what I mean. Routine, even. The absence of friction, of change, of having to search, or to think in the present-tense. Luxury as an emollient. Not something that engages, or fires up a fantasy, but something that allows you to recede into sameness, into that proxy world where we all live these days, mostly elsewhere, mostly online, mostly another time and space entirely.