Set in an 11th-century palazzo on the highest point of Ravello (1,150 feet), overlooking an incomparable panorama of the Bay of Salerno, the Caruso-Belvedere hotel had always been considered a corner of paradise. In decades past it was a favored home-away-from-home for the likes of Virginia Woolf, Tennessee Williams, Graham Greene, the Khedive of Egypt, Margot Fonteyn, and Peter O'Toole (who came for a week and stayed a month), all of whom came to savor the unique time-stained patina, the spectacularly frescoed gran salone, the pretty terrace restaurant, and the achingly lovely gardens. But guest rooms bordered on the threadbare, so the Caruso family permitted the well-respected Orient-Express company to remake the hotel (2003-2006) with the "best" that money can buy. The renovation team promised great things: Antonio Forcellino of Rome's Central Institute of Restoration was at the helm (his résumé includes Michelangelo's Moses), aided by internationally renowned Italian interior designer Federico Forquet. Today, however, Virginia Woolf would walk in this place and promptly turn right back out the door. The once-atmospheric Edwardian-era gardens look as if they were planted yesterday (and rub shoulders with a new "infinity" pool); the legendary Gothic-bifore window -- a postcard icon for centuries of the Amalfi Coast -- has been ripped apart and is now lost in an endless beige-on-beige cocktail lobby; the charming 19th-century furnishings have been traded in for oversize rattan furniture that conjures up luxury hotels from Kansas to Katmandu. Of course, the new guest rooms are exquisitely sumptuous, most with sea view and some with private garden. They should be -- doubles begin here at EUR 758. All is now luxe and lambinage: Guests are welcomed with strawberries and champagne; luxurious massages and complimentary boat and shuttle services are at the ready. And you're welcome to wrap up the evening, as did Rod Stewart, by joining the pianist for a song in the bar. Somehow we feel the great Enrico Caruso (a cousin to the family) is spinning, propeller-fashion, in his grave.
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