On an excursion to the ancient city of Petra, Jordan, clients helicoptered in after-hours so they could tour the ruins alone. Another trip, this one to Camp Sarika, the Utah desert retreat billed as America’s most luxe glamping experience, offered visitors the run of the place before it opened to the public. Then there was the tour of Frogmore, the closed-to-the-public English “cottage” where Harry and Meghan lived before decamping to the U.S.
All are worthy contenders, but the ultimate example of the latest trend in super-luxe travel has to be a particular Bahamas angling adventure: A stealth diver with a stash of previously captured live fish was concealed beneath the boat to hook one onto the line if the anglers failed to catch enough fish on their own.
“As long as it’s legal, we’ll try to make it happen,” says Max Rosenthal, operations manager at New York based Fischer Travel, which arranged all of the above trips.
In the game of constant one-upmanship that luxury travel has become, the glamorous destinations and Instagrammable accommodations that once wowed well-heeled vacationers are now a given. Agencies like Fischer offer a new level of concierge service, delivering something akin to what czars and industry barons of the past might have expected.
The desire for more— more luxury, more exclusivity, more surprise and delight—is what drives the rise of such agencies, which serve a growing moneyed clientele seeking meaningful experiences but lacking the knowledge, connections, and time to create them on their own.
“People want to have these great, life-changing experiences, but they don’t want to deal with the chaos of travel,” says Amanda Teale, founder and CEO of Minerva Private Travel in Cobham, U.K., which plans trips for a coterie of high-end clients on both sides of the Atlantic. “We provide very serious hand-holding and do everything we can to eliminate the hassle factor and the drama.”
Demand is on the rise. Although no industrywide statistics track the emergence of these exclusive concierge travel agents, both Fischer and Minerva have expanded their operations since the end of the COVID-19 pandemic.
Fischer’s members-only client list has grown from about 100 to 130, with more on a wait list. “As great as it would be to keep growing, we don’t want our standards to drop,” says Rosenthal. Minerva has never advertised and only takes on clients through recommendations—and also has a wait list.
Fischer charges each client a $25,000 membership fee per year, plus per-service costs. “We bill somewhat like a lawyer,” Rosenthal says. “It depends on the difficulty of the request and how many hours it takes to arrange.” Teale eschews the membership model: Minerva’s commission is 3.5% of the total cost of the trip, with full packages running, on average, from $75,000 to $100,000—and rising. The most expensive trip Teale has ever booked—a private island takeover in the Indian Ocean—rang in at nearly $1 million. “Some clients book three times a year, and some book 12 times,” she says. “They’re not all going to be big trips. If you want to buy your kid a train ticket to come home from college, we’ll take care of that too.”
Wealth alone isn’t enough to secure Teale’s services. She interviews prospective clients to make sure “that we vibe and that I can make their dreams come true.” She says she frequently passes on clients, and has even fired a few for being rude to staff or vendors. Assuming they behave, clients get one phone number—hers—and can call anytime, from anywhere, day or night.
Among the amenities these agencies provide are greeters who whisk clients through private security checkpoints and immigration stations to a lounge or suite, and from there to a car that drives across the tarmac to the plane. Of course, many clients simply fly private—an option that has become so popular, Teale is considering assembling her own jet service.
She already has a collection of electric Mercedes sedans manned by uniformed drivers for transport around the U.K. that are outfitted with cashmere blankets embroidered with the Minerva logo, chilled water bottles, and the latest issue of the company’s self-published biannual lifestyle magazine.
“We know your favorite snacks, and we’ll have them in there,” she says. “And if your kid needs a car seat, that’ll be installed before we arrive.” One client’s three children love cheese sandwiches, so Teale makes them herself and packs them in a picnic basket that’s waiting on the back seat. “We believe your trip starts when you step out the front door,” Teale says. “And we handle everything ourselves, so we maintain full control.”
When clients sign up at Fischer, they’re assigned a two-or three-person team with one point of direct contact available 24/7, on call to solve problems and leverage the company’s vast network. One recent example: A client was on his way to a South African safari when he called to say his kid had broken his dental retainer in-flight. Fischer arranged for an orthodontist “to be waiting for them in the bush when they landed,” Rosenthal notes.
Beyond the hassle avoidance, these wealthy clients are seeking truly unique experiences—that elusive “wow” factor for people whose elevated lifestyles make them very hard to impress. Fischer has placed clients among heads of state at the Paris Olympics; helicoptered them into a Taylor Swift concert 20 minutes before she hit the stage; and even arranged for one to go through an exorcism at the Vatican.
Essentialist, another membership-driven travel company, based in Majorca, Spain, uses a network of local experts to identify unique venues and design personal interactions that tap into their clients’ passions. Itineraries might include visits with renowned artists and writers, cooking sessions with Michelin-starred chefs, or grape-harvesting and wine-tasting hosted by the family who owns the vineyard. For a client traveling to Tokyo with teenagers, the company had the influencer Akane Chuma take the family on an epic shopping spree that included Japan’s top designers, as well as boutiques and vintage stores offering everything from antique kimonos to tableware.
Annual membership at Essentialist runs $2,600 plus fees, and combines an app with personal “experience managers.” Founder Joan Roca came up with the approach after working at Travelocity. “I wanted to go deeper, beyond simply ‘where to go’ and into ‘who to meet,’” he says.
Even as travel sites promise to simplify the booking process, tech has actually made planning a trip even more overwhelming for some. “I’ve always done a lot of traveling and always did all the arrangements myself, but as the tech evolved, it got more complex,” says Jim Durgin, 77, a retired American Express executive from Cumming, Ga. “I don’t want to do the work anymore. I want to be taken care of, especially because I’m the kind of person that worries about every detail.”
Durgin and his wife have used Essentialist’s services since 2017, and among the memorable trips they have taken was a visit to Teatro Colón, the national theater in Buenos Aires, that included a private audience with Paloma Herrera, an internationally renowned prima ballerina who became artistic director of the theater’s ballet company.
“Most of our clients are looking to optimize their time with loved ones,” says Elyssa Roberts, a senior travel manager at Marchay in New York City, an agency that charges $8,500 a year. “They want that attention to detail, access, and intelligence.”
Marchay regularly persuades museums to open early for clients, private castles to admit guests, and eminent people to meet and chat with visitors. On a recent trip to Paris, the company arranged a tour of the Eiffel Tower—led by a great-great-grandson of its architect, Gustave Eiffel.
Of course, there are some trip details even these incredibly resourceful agencies can’t control. It’s one thing to make sure the fish are biting, but all the money in the world still can’t make the sun shine.
This article appears in the February/March issue of Fortune with the headline “How to plan your next $100,000 vacation.”
