How Donald Trump Does Snowstorms

A reporter tagged along with Donald Trump on a trip to New Hampshire and writes as Trump, in New Hampshre, learns that a snowstorm is going to delay his flight back to NYC:

LaGuardia is effectively shutting down, and we may have to wait a few hours before they can clear a runway for us. Trump is not interested in waiting. He has an idea: What if we just skip New York altogether and fly to Palm Beach? Trump owns a sprawling beachside mansion there, and he’s due in Orlando the next day anyway.

One of the aides begins talking Trump through his calendar to see if the last-minute Florida jaunt is feasible. There is some sort of business meeting in New York, but it seems likely to be disrupted anyway due to the weather. There is also the fact that tomorrow is his anniversary with his third wife, Melania. Trump doesn’t seem to mind missing it. “It’s fine,” he says, prompting chuckles from the yes-men.

By the time the SUV pulls into the driveway of the airfield where his 757 is parked, Trump has ordered his pilots to reroute to Palm Beach International Airport. He has solved the weather problem [...] when someone reminds him that I’m still in the car, Trump says, “Bring him to Florida!” The invitation sounds vaguely like an order.

“I just hope he’s OK with the plane,” he adds, grinning.The first thing that strikes me upon boarding Trump’s plane is how familiar it feels, like a sitcom living room. It’s all exactly as it has appeared on TV a thousand times: white carpet, gold-plated seat belts, cream leather couches, velvet pillows, and an intricately woven Trump family coat of arms — which he had to lobby Scotland’s heraldic authority to make official — serving as the primary decorative motif.

“What do you think of the plane?” Trump asks as I settle into one of the seats. “Are you satisfied?”

“Yeah, I think this will work.”

Persuaded that I am sufficiently awestruck, he tosses me a bag of pretzels and retreats to a bedroom near the front of the plane to flip channels. 

I am joined on the flight by Keith Schiller, a former New York Police Department detective who has worked security for Trump for 15 years, and Sam Nunberg, a young conservative activist turned operative who now works as Trump’s political right hand.

As we ascend, the large flat-screen TV in my section of the plane, which is connected to the one in Trump’s bedroom, flips back and forth between Fox News and MSNBC, apparently in search of coverage of his New Hampshire visit. But the networks’ cameras are all trained on Chris Christie’s inauguration. After about an hour, the channel stops changing. Trump has given up and gone to sleep. 

Trump bought the Mar-a-Lago, a 17-acre Moorish estate in Palm Beach, Fla., that stretches from the ocean to Lake Worth, for $10 million in 1985, and promptly set about Trumpifying the 60-year-old mansion, adding jacuzzi tubs, a 20,000-square-foot ballroom, and a spa. During the winter months, it functions both as a private club for Trump’s rich and famous friends, and as a personal weekend getaway for Trump himself. (During his divorce with his second wife, Marla Maples, helicopters hovered overhead to get B-roll for the splashy tabloid story.) On any given afternoon, a well-mannered staff of over 200 can be found scurrying around the complex, preparing for orchestral performances and elaborate dinners, whipping up wild boar burgers upon request, and catering to the various whims of its members, like author James Patterson, New England Patriots owner Bob Kraft, and Woody Allen.

Because we came here with Trump, my fellow passengers and I are treated like royalty. After arriving on site in a miniature motorcade, we are ushered into a golf cart, which ferries us less than 100 yards to the cottages overlooking the pool. My room has the feeling of a nice, if slightly dated, hotel, with an aesthetic that matches Trump’s plane — white carpet, gold fixtures, and tiny bottles of Trump-branded hair conditioner. It contains a large television with a dimming screen, and an old-school radio alarm clock that I will later find difficult to turn off.Once I’ve settled in, I make my way to the terrace and find Trump scooping sprouts onto his plate at a makeshift salad bar.

“What do you think of the place?” he asks me.

“It’s beautiful,” I respond.

Turning to a server, he says, “He’s going to need lunch right now, and then he’ll need a room for a couple nights. Whatever he needs, take care of him — food, a change of clothes, whatever.”

“Of course, Mr. Trump,” the server replies. I try protesting that I’ll only be here one night, but nobody seems to hear me.

Earlier, when Trump suggested I not write about staying at Mar-a-Lago because it would look like a conflict of interest, I informed him that BuzzFeed’s ethics policy would require the company to send his office a check to cover my expenses. He magnanimously waved me off at first, and when I insisted, he scoffed. “Oh, give me a break,” he said. “OK fine, you owe me $100,000 for the flight to Florida.” (Upon request, the company eventually sent us a bill for $857.27.)

Once he finishes talking to the server, Trump leans in close, and lowers his voice. “There are a lot of good-looking women here,” he says. Then he strides off, salad in hand.[...] 

Later that night, Nunberg and I are dining on shrimp salad and steak at a table near the outdoor bar when Trump spots us.

“Have you begun doing your work?” he asks me, jabbing his index fingers into the air, in an action I think is supposed to resemble typing.

“I just started transcribing,” I tell him.

The conversation turns to the blizzard in New York, and we inform him that the earliest flights home we could book were for tomorrow evening. Trump waves down our waitress and instructs her to open up the spa store so that we can pick out suitable beach attire for the following day. “Whatever they want, give it to them. On the house!”

I thank him, but decline, again citing my company’s ethics policy. He ignores me. “Stay as long as you want.”

Note: The overall piece was a kind of poorly written hit piece. Trump fired the aide who set up the coverage.