Once upon a time, flying was special. Glamorous even. Three-quarter-length minks, leather and pigskin palms, fedoras and double-breasted tweed. Suited and booted was how it was done on the daily. Seats on a plane were spacious, the food was real, the lines manageable. Eye contact was mandatory, and a handshake was as stiff as the drinks that were served.

And then—oil, terror, dollars and cents—times changed. Nothing personifies the anxiety-inducing madness of modern air travel like an international terminal. This is why we need Xanax and Ambien over pretzels and peanuts.

The American airport is a case study of the herd mentality, where waiting and woe have replaced whimsical and wishful. Nothing works, no one cares, and nothing seems to improve security or efficiency despite pre-checks and precautions. Footwear to laptops and lithium—we’re all resigned to our fate when flying, just hoping not to get too fucked over from point A to B. Nostalgia be damned, some things were better before the age of apps, and traveling was one of them. Flying was special.

And now, for the most elite of the jet set, it is again. In May, the first private terminal in the U.S. opened at Los Angeles International Airport. Private is the operative word; the $22 million facility is located on the far side of the airport, away from public terminals and paparazzi. There are 13 suites with bathrooms, drinks, food, televisions, and a staff of eight servants—er, attendants.

Courtesy of Gavin de Becker & Associates.

Passengers complete security screening and clear customs in the terminal before being driven, head-of-state style, across the runway to the plane in a BMW 7 Series sedan (supposedly just 70 steps from terminal to plane. The average Joe hoofs more than 2,000).

Modeled on Heathrow’s Windsor Suite, which runs about $3,500 for membership, V.I.P. terminals are catching on, with one in Dubai that opened last December, and options in Amsterdam, Munich, and now Los Angeles, where the chosen few no longer deal with luggage, lines, or paparazzi. Could anything be more celebrity-friendly in a city known for stars?

V.I.P. is a descriptor so casually thrown around these days that any place with burgundy velvet and a bald bouncer can call itself “exclusive.” But the LAX private terminal is crammed with tangible reminders of how different the other half lives. Organic seaweed snacks, 85 percent cacao, Laurent-Perrier Champagne, scented candles, daybeds. Passengers can take advantage of seemingly every toiletterie and travel hack under the sun, from universal chargers and noise-canceling headphones to Emergen-C and roll-on deodorant. Instead of rushing to the gate and jockeying for a seat, the biggest problem in this terminal is figuring out whether there is any Dijon mustard (there is), and how to switch from CNN to MSNBC on the suite’s TV.