Sanremo: my terrace on the Dolce Vita
Every year, when Sanremo returns to be the symbolic centre of Italy excited, noisy, in love with its music, I go back to my room. Not just any room, but that room: on the top floor of the Royal Hotel Sanremo, overlooking the sea, with a private terrace opening onto infinity and a bouquet of white orchids waiting for me like a silent ritual.
The sea in front of me makes no noise. It breathes. As soon as I cross the threshold, I find a detail that moves me every time: the white orchids carefully arranged, elegant in their composure. There is a delicate scent in the air - a mixture of wood, fresh linen and Mediterranean - that marks the beginning of a suspended parenthesis for me. It is there that I have breakfast every morning, observing the seagulls gliding curiously, often too bold, ready to compete for a piece of my brioche. An intimate and unchanging ritual, which makes each return a return to myself.
The Royal is my counterpoint to the buzzing city. While the streets fill with voices, cameras, artists, onlookers, and the Ariston Festival resounds everywhere, the Royal remains itself: elegant, composed, measured. It is a place that does not chase visibility, because true beauty has no need to chase anything.
And so, as the city prepares to crown its new voice, I find mine. Inside a place that has always chosen not to change, and for this very reason remains eternal. It is one of those rare places where time stands still not out of nostalgia, but out of respect. A discreet refuge, suspended between the memory of an elegant Italy and the contemporary desire for authenticity.
It is the tangible tale of a certain Italy that has never succumbed to the urgency of the present. Its Art Nouveau architecture, the salons with large carpets and Renaissance frescoes, the terrace where every sunset is a painting: everything speaks of an ancient gentleness that makes sense again today. Here hospitality is an art. An art made up of looks that recognise you, of memories that are renewed every year, of a composure that smells of truth.
But it is in the faces you meet in the corridors, in the smiles you meet in the halls, that you really grasp the essence of the new Dolce Vita. Not the kind made of flash and clamour, but of elegant details, polite presences, measured gestures. Men who wear linen naturally, women who wear hats as a timeless style statement. One breathes an air suspended between the past and the possible. A beauty that does not shout, but allows itself to be admired in silence.
Then there is a moment when I leave the silence of my terrace and descend towards Bresca Square. I like to lose myself in the little alleys that surround it, to let myself be traversed by the voices, the scents, the living noise of the people. Sanremo, here, is more real than ever: an interweaving of accents, laughter, quick steps and slow chatter. It is the other face of the Festival, the one that does not go on air but tells much more.
And there, as every year, I see Raffaele. The owner of the restaurant by Nico. There is no need for us to greet each other formally: he always greets me in the same way, not as a guest, but as a long-standing friend, one from home. All we need is a glance, a smile. The table is already there, the raw fish is a ritual he knows well. And I, sitting under the soft lights of the square, feel exactly where I need to be.
When I leave Sanremo, I always take away the same baggage: full eyes, a light heart, and a tune that resonates within me. A new song that joins all the others that the Festival has given me over the years. But above all, I take away the certainty that places like the Royal Hotel still exist. Places where La Dolce Vita - the real one - is not over: it has only learnt to whisper.
