353giovanab
Google
An old room with a library seemed perfect for my partner and me: he is a devoted reader; I write from time to time. The photographs promised charm, even delight, and we were looking for beauty in the place where we rest. That promise dissolved upon arrival. Whatever ambitions of “exquisite décor” this hotel may claim are ultimately overwhelmed by a grotesque racist, colonial, and misogynistic imagination. Among countless possible books and visual references, the curatorial choices manage—remarkably, in 2026—to reproduce a worldview rooted in domination. Bravo. Any beauty the place might once have held is entirely obscured by a decadent and inhumane way of thinking. As a BIPOC woman, I understood immediately the symbolic message being staged: a space designed to classify, to mock, to reduce certain bodies—Afro-descendant, mestizo, female—to objects of ridicule, and by extension, to legitimate violence. The irony, of course, is that I was the guest. I could have created a scene; I chose instead to observe. What I observed was not refinement, but fear—fear of difference, of skin color, of phenotype—and the familiar fragility of white masculinity when its imagined hierarchy is no longer secure. It is striking how little intellectual or moral substance a room full of books can contain. The hotel calls itself a Residenza d’Epoca, which raises the unavoidable question: the era of whom? An era when colonial fantasies were normalized, when misogyny passed for humor, when violence against others—symbolic or real—was socially acceptable and aesthetically framed. If that is the “epoch” being preserved, it is not history but decay. Books and art, in such a context, signify nothing—an elaborate décor masking an absence of soul. I feel genuine sympathy for the kind, attentive foreign staff who must coexist daily with these symbols. This was not merely disappointing; it was revealing. The breakfast was good. The mattress was terribly sunken.