Hotel hopping in Rome

Summer in Rome.

Expectation: breathe the soul of the classics, soak up the history, feel the romance.

Reality: breathe in the AC, soak in a pool of sweat, feel ever so slightly unhinged.

My plans to indulge in Italy’s time-honored tradition of la passeggiata — strolling around looking stylish, gelato in hand — were quickly nixed by the Cerberus heatwave. Dreams of meandering around perhaps the world’s most famous open-air museum gave way to lying recumbent with a handheld fan.

Jumping from the relative cool of a sleeper-train carriage onto the platform at Termini station felt akin to opening an oven door and climbing in. Red alert warnings were issued as the mercury soared toward 119°F. Dehydrated tourists canceled walking tours in favor of bathing in the Eternal City’s network of free drinking fountains. The sun was so strong one day, I heard a poor kid shout “Mummy! I can’t open my eyes!” The moment my companion noticed that her shoes were melting, it felt prudent to skip the Forum and retreat to the hotel for a shower.

“Inside, it’s better,” nodded the Hotel Locarno’s helpful receptionist, motioning for some iced water. Stepping into the lobby right off the sweltering Piazza del Popolo was bittersweet, with so much to see right outside. But the hotel’s interiors provided ample distraction, a bacchanal of rich colors, period furniture and heavy upholstery. Shown to our Prestige Deluxe “Matilde di Canossa” room, I flopped onto the queen-sized bed in a state of mild heat exhaustion.

Afforded a rare moment to stare up at the original frescoes, I was intrigued. I noticed the original herringbone parquet floor, and carefully set out my toiletries on the restored vintage dresser. I ran my hand across the painted glass door to the balcony overlooking the Via della Penna. As for that shower, it was actually a bathtub, well hidden behind a secret door. A welcome discovery, but impractical, with no shower curtain. I can understand the decision; when you’ve copped an original Sienese marble bathroom in desaturated saffron, and a tub crafted from a single piece of craquelée ceramic, you’ll do anything not to spoil the effect.

Early mornings in the hotel’s breezy Terrazza Locarno became a staple; we spent luxurious free hours spent reading books, drinking good coffee and jotting down travel tips from other guests escaping the heat. Bar Locarno afforded sweeping views of a city I resolved to see more of next time, as I ordered a third Campari Spritz in the shade.

This visit in the heat became an exercise in appreciating the artistry of interior designers, painters and sculptors whose work happens not to grace the Sistine Chapel, but Rome’s abundance of bohemian, boutique hotels. I researched five of the very best, resolving to uncover their secrets — as long as they had air conditioning.

We moved on to Palazzo Ripetta, a historic seventeenth-century house with seventy-eight guest rooms that houses the owner’s quite fabulous private art collection. As we checked in, the Harvard Krokodiloes a cappella group performed a kooky show in the patio area, a pretty fountain babbling in the background — one I’m sure they thought about diving into, clad as they were in dark tuxedos.

I wouldn’t usually have allowed myself enough time to sit and watch the whole performance, nor truly taken in the Roman and modern works dotting the walls. But some exploration uncovered works by Andy Warhol, Angel Ortiz and Arnaldo Pomodoro — the latter’s marble sphere in the hotel entrance one of just a handful in the world (the Vatican Museum has one, too).

Setting our alarms for the cool hour at the crack of dawn, we wandered along the famed Via Ripetta toward the Piazza di Spagna, sitting on the famous Steps with a coffee before the rest of the city could stuff swollen feet into sandals. Ambling back to Palazzo Ripetta’s San Baylon restaurant, a favorite of Rome’s fashion set, we gorged on mortadella and cheeses before the heat had a chance to kill our appetites. Our bi-level suite, one of twenty-seven designed by Fausta Gaetani, featured a steam shower — it was too hot to contemplate, but we had fun freshening up with the glut of Sicilian bath products by Ortigia. A small roof terrace later proved perfect for pre-dinner drinks and cigarettes, readying us to head out into the sticky night.

Taking aim for Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome hotel’s gargantuan portico, we had a quick look at the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli before stepping under the iconic arches of the Piazza della Repubblica. The hotel’s SEEN by Olivier rooftop bar affords an airy spot to catch the sunset; on our visit, heat-frazzled guests practically cheered as the blazing orb finally started its descent (even louder when they discovered a small rooftop pool was due to be unveiled that week). Descending to the cool of INEO restaurant for dinner, we were honored to meet affable chef Heros de Agostinis, a self-professed “typical Roman” serving Italian cuisine with influences he’s picked up from around the world.

There was nothing typical about the bread cart that arrived midway through our dazzling meal, groaning with artisan loaves from Abruzzo, Habemus olive oil and butter from Normandy. Each item hints at Heros’s extensive travels — only the freshest ingredients are brought in from the buzzing Esquilino market in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, so you might try wild, line-caught amberjack, fermented cucumber, wasabi and yuzu or a saddle of venison with fine herbs. After dinner, hotel staff was happy to assist in our quest to enjoy the AC as long as possible, proudly showing off one of the hotel’s finest secrets — its foundations are built around the eerie ruins of the Baths of Diocletian, made visible through glass panels in the walls and underfoot.

Pinballing from old to new, next on our hotel hit list was the Hoxton, a ten-minute walk from the airy Borghese Modern Art Museum. The midday sun on our backs for the amble home, we gladly tumbled into the hotel’s Elio restaurant, billed as a spot for “long and boozy meals with friends on holiday in Italy,” which sounded doable. The hottest hours of the day were spent sampling Torino iced teas, pappardelle al ragù and the obligatory fried artichoke, a Roman specialty. Upstairs, 192 rooms range from “Shoebox” to “Biggy,” their statement headboards, lacquered timbers and bright furnishings delighting nostalgia-loving, mid-century Italian design fans.

Hoxton hotels across Europe and North America share one feature aside from natty style: excellent staff. Rome’s contingent was delighted to suggest spots for us to check off our list, from the hipster vibes of nontraditional pizza joint Seu Pizza Illuminati (go for the strawberry toppings, sure, but the classic Margherita is unmissable). We came away with tips for the best supplì (Roman-style deep-fried rice balls) and late-night ice cream shops within scooting distance — another great way to catch a breeze.

A five-minute zoom south of the Hoxton, the Rome EDITION’s lush courtyard garden marked the final and most verdant stop on our fortnight-long hotel hop. Boutique-hotelier Ian Schrager’s signature living walls shoot upward all around as guests walk through to check in. Something about the greenery immediately makes you feel cooler, calmer — light music plays and glasses clink, as Anima diners get stuck into zucchini flowers in tempura, vitello tonnato and Rome’s absolute finest burrata. Unsurprisingly, the Italian wines are exquisite — and the pasta? Perfect. If you find yourself in town, don’t sleep on the cuttlefish ragout, with Falisco pecorino fondue, lemon and wild fennel.

I like to think of rooms at EDITION properties as indubitably posh, sexy caves; the AC so low you actually want to curl up in the fur throws decadently draped across the custom Italian linens, after drenching yourself in the custom Le Labo toiletries. Fortified to try a little more sightseeing (just a little) we were delighted to find Rome’s outpost is just steps from the Trevi Fountain. Tempting as it was, the fine for taking a dip is €500. Happily, the EDITION is home to one of Rome’s few rooftop pools.

On our very last day, a reprieve. Temperatures dropped just enough to consider a full day’s exploring, which we resolved to spend avoiding the crowds. A private guided tour of the epicurean dreamland Testaccio market kicked off with our lively guide Nicole proffering breakfast Proseccos “to clean the mouth” after we tore into locally made porchetta. Coffee and pastries followed at neighborhood institution Pasticceria Barberini; then we had a look at Volpetti, an iconic delicatessen stocking more than 150 types of cheese and hundreds of varieties of salami and truffles. Lunch was a musky pasta alla Amatriciana (guanciale, pecorino and tomato) at one of the world-class restaurants grouped around the market. Walking off our indulgences, our feet took us to the Cimitero Acattolico, the peaceful, shady resting place of many an expatriate Protestant. A ginger cat stretched lazily across the grave of Percy Bysshe Shelley — and mosquitoes began to pinch at our ankles. We stopped to reflect on our unexpectedly gentle but culturally rich trip, scanning the famously sad inscription on John Keats’s grave. Hinting that the twenty-five-year-old felt unappreciated in his lifetime, it reads: “Here Lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.” In a fittingly romantic moment, there was a clap of thunder. Finally, it began to rain.

Amy was a guest of the hotels visited and explored Testaccio market with Travellocal. com. This article was originally published in The Spectator’s September 2024 World edition.