The Sound of Silence

A trip aboard a private jet to Seychelles proves restorative and the perfect prelude to a stay highlighting the true reward of travel.

- Rohan Dosh

I nearly missed my flight from Mumbai to Dubai—airport chaos reigning across India. Wading through a crowd of disgruntled passengers, overworked airline staff, and the general din of commerce at the international terminal left me exhausted and sleepy. I exhaled on landing in Dubai, from where I was leaving for the Seychelles: an island I've dreamed of in every colour of blue.

Al Maktoum, Dubai's private-jet terminal, accessed by a 40-minute ride out of the main city, sits in dry, flat terrain; I dissolved into my book allowing the page to do its work. It was the first time in weeks I felt briefly unfindable. And when I arrived at the ExecuJet terminal at Al Maktoum, it was as if I'd crashed a cocktail party hosted by someone dauntingly smart and much minted. Noise stood cancelled. Low voices. Large rooms with floor-to-ceiling glass. A sofa, deep enough to disappear into, as the plane prepped for our departure.

Travel has become a mildly degrading experience—the dismissal of personal agency as you walk into a security check, the insulting removal of shoes and belts, the jostling that makes you feel like cattle in a truck. But here, at Dubai’s ExecuJet terminal, dignity reigned: belts belonged around my waist as the security team finished their work as discreetly as a sigh. A few nods and we were on the plane, which stood on the tarmac like a mythic creature engineered to seduce: a winged beast, radiating voltage, and golden confidence.