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While most people press pause on pleasure the moment the boarding pass disappears, the Bon Vivant finds a way to stretch that glow all year long — from February fog to August aperitivos.

Poets call it solitude. We just call it necessary. To slow down, deliberately. We’ve always been enchanted by the quiet luxury of small hotels. The kind with ivy-draped balconies, linen curtains that dance with the breeze, and owners who know your name by the second morning. There’s something deeply restorative about these spaces. They don’t demand performance. You don’t need to “do” anything to earn your stay. You simply arrive. You soften.