We leave the hotel, and I’m starting to make a left, down into town, when Adam cocks his head across the street. There is a car waiting, with a driver standing by outside.
“For us?” I ask.
Adam nods. “We’re going to broaden our horizons,” he says. “After you.”
The driver holds the door open, and I slip into the back of an old-time town car. Adam gets in the other side next to me.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“Il San Pietro,” he says. “One of the most stunning places in the world.”
I remember the name of this place. It was on our itinerary, day 6:Drinks at San Pietro.
“It’s a famous hotel,” Adam continues. “It’s hard to explain, better to just see it.”
We drive down past town and then back out, along the coast, and in no more than ten minutes, we are pulling off to the right side of the road.
“Here we are,” the driver says.
“Grazie, Lorenzo,” Adam says.
We walk down a small path, and then we are at the mouth of Il San Pietro, a sprawling estate built entirely into the rock of the seaside.
The lobby is open and white, and green ivy climbs the walls and saunters across swaths of the ceiling. Huge glass windows lead out to wraparound terraces that hang over the sea. Farther out, there is nothing but ocean.
“This is beyond,” I say to Adam.
He smiles. “Come on.”
Out on the veranda I see the tiers of the hotel—with what looks like millions of steps down to the ocean. Below us, hundreds of feet, there are tennis courts and a beach club—bright orange chairs sit perkily on the rocks of the shore. There is a 180-degree view of the Mediterranean Sea.
“This looks like a fairy tale,” I tell Adam.
A waiter appears, handing us each a glass of ice-cold champagne. “Buonasera,” he says. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s walk a bit before dinner,” Adam says.
All around the main hub of the hotel are ivy-lined walkways. They weave in and out between rooms and levels, taking us down closer to the ocean and back up, toward the main restaurant and lobby.
“Have you ever stayed here?” I ask Adam.
“Once,” he says. “It’s extremely romantic”—he takes a sip of champagne and I look away, down at the water—“but I love the ease and convenience of the Poseidon. Here, you are really in another world.”
“Yes,” I say.
I don’t see how you would ever leave. The magic of Italy seems to be in its ability to connect to some time out of time, some era that is unmarked by modernity. There is so much peacefulness in being present, right here.
I take a sip of the champagne. It’s dry and crisp.
We walk on a stone pathway covered overhead by branches of lemon trees.
“This is heaven,” I say.
“Every guest room is different,” Adam says. “Totally unique. From the fixtures to the hardware to the decor. It’s really special.”
Down the path, a man and woman walk hand in hand in bathing suits. He has a towel slung over his shoulder.
