You stare idly out the window, or flip through a copy of the in-flight magazine, as the river of sad, upgrade-challenged passengers flows on, hands full of babies, boxes and oversize carry-ons, wheeling and pushing and dragging their possessions to a seat barely big enough for an 8-year-old, and with just enough room in the overhead bin for a paperback book.

You pretend not to notice, but you do. And you notice them noticing you, and you feel their envy and maybe their anger and–let’s be very, very honest here–it somehow makes the seat you’re in even more spacious, and the champagne you’re drinking just a little more bubbly. It’s human nature, I guess, that the best way to enjoy the things you have is to enjoy them directly in front of someone who doesn’t have them.

Or maybe it’s just what the not-so-rich do when they’re lucky enough to cadge an upgrade. Because rich people, actual rich people–as opposed to people who travel a lot on business, or use a certain credit card, or know how to work the frequent-flier angle–aren’t all that crazy about consuming conspicuously. They’re not even on the plane, sipping champagne and rolling their eyes at the steerage class. They’re on their own plane, sipping whatever they want to sip, going wherever they want to go.

And where they’re going, you won’t run into them. The superrich tend not to think in terms of renting a hotel room, but of renting an entire island. Necker Island, in the Caribbean, goes for about $22,000 per night, and comes with a staff of 30. A cheaper option might be the Loire Valley’s Chateau de la Guillonniere, which goes for a doable 10,000 euro a week in the high season. But to be rich is really to be rich in options, so for some high-end travelers who want to split the difference between an island and an ordinary hotel room, there’s the Amanpuri in Phuket, Thailand, which offers multibedroom villas for the no-sweat fee of around $5,000 a night.

And when they do decide to go slumming at, say, the Ritz in Paris or the Four Seasons in Maui, you can be sure that they don’t stand haplessly at the front desk, waiting to check in. They’re whisked away to their suites, shielded from the prying eyes of the poor slobs who have to check in the regular way.

Of course, it must be galling to discover, as you’re checking in to the Ritz in Paris, that you are not going to be whisked anywhere until your credit card is approved, and that, in general, whisking and cosseting is something experienced by those who are in the $2,000-a-night suites–the big ones, the ones with names–and not the hoi polloi paying a measly $800 a night for a standard room with no view.

But that’s how it must feel to the guy in business class who snickers about the wretches in economy just before he notices how nice it is up in first. Or for the guy in first who gazes smugly out the window and notices a small Gulfstream V jet ready for takeoff. But even the guy in the Gulfstream, settling into his private cabin, is aware that he doesn’t own the plane. It’s a time-share deal. And if he glances out the window at the right moment, he might see Paul Allen, one of the founders of Microsoft, pulling up in his Boeing 707. Excuse me, one of his Boeing 707s.

In a way, though, a life filled only with high-end pampering must be self-defeating. True luxury is best savored when it comes after a little bit of discomfort. Years ago, after several weeks of trekking through Burma, tired, dirty, sore and a little sick, I arrived in Bangkok. I headed straight to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. As I struggled out of the taxi, I was swarmed by uniformed staffers. In a blur of activity, they carted off the luggage, paid the taxi driver, guided me through the lobby and directly to my room, unpacked for me, sent dirty clothes to the laundry, ran the bath, brought some tea… it was an incredible ballet of service. Before I really knew what was happening, I was standing in my hotel room, in a bathrobe, with an orchid in one hand and my American Express card in the other.

The Mandarin Oriental in Bangkok is one of the world’s greatest hotels, obviously. And it’s luxurious no matter what condition you arrive in–dirty and sick, or fresh from the Gulfstream V. But I like to think that it was especially great because it was just what I needed, just when I needed it. I mean, superrich pampering 24/7 must get boring, right? Right?

Let’s just agree that it does, OK?