$$$$, Piazza di Spagna
Fodor's Review:
Lizst, Mendelssohn, Hans Christian Andersen, Mark Twain, Hemingway, and now you? Ever since it opened its doors in 1845, the d'Inghilterra has welcomed Rome's most discerning tourists -- indeed, it was named to honor all those Brits who once colonized the Spanish Steps district back in the Grand Tour era. Today the hotel's 19th-century elegance has been transposed to the 21st. Down the block from the former pied-à-terre of poet Robert Browning, across the street from the couture salon of Principessa Galitzine, and set on a potted-palm cobblestone stretch of posh Via Bocca di Leone, this "albergo" is like a charming sepia photograph come to life. With a marvelous residential feel and a staff that is as warm as the surroundings are velvety, this hotel has lots going for it. Even a pedigree: it started life as the guesthouse of the fabulously rich Prince Torlonia (whose palazzo was across the way). The lobby is a jewel -- tiny, unassuming, like a sentry box against the hustle and bustle outside the front door. In fact, you're in the heart of the shopping district here, so traffic noises can intrude even the double-pane windows (the best rooms here overlook a quiet, plant-covered terrace). Upstairs, some guest rooms are so full of carpets, gilt-framed mirrors, and cozy bergères, you may not care about the snug dimensions. No matter: guests like to repair to the public salons on the first floor, including the Bar, which is James Bond-suave. Happily, the breakfast cellar is still aswirl with trompe-l'oeil frescoes.
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