Town and Country

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I’m lost in thought as I relax on the window seat in my room at the Four Seasons Hotel Miami, sipping a mojito and watching, alternately, yachts slipping by in Biscayne Bay, the flash of traffic 12 stories below and the setting sun.

I’m on a Miami vacation, and yet I’ll admit that I expected to be more shaken than… soothed. Cities like this achieve mythic status, their sizzling, swanky reputations built as high as this hotel. So I expected big skies, big beaches and a big scene.

But now, as I sit annexed above the bustle, daydreaming about my mid-morning massage, the outdoor café’s peaceful water wall – meant to dampen the sounds of the city – and the Acqua Grill’s down-home Italian regional cuisine, I’m struck by how positively pastoral my hot trip to Miami is turning out to be.

I’ve gone to the city – that I’m sure of. I’ve left my own bustle behind, traveling over hill and dale. I’ve brought my sunglasses and bikini. Emily Post would unpack my bags and state with aplomb that I was headed for the country.

But as they’d say in 19th century England, I’ve gone to town. The distinction being, I muse, pulling on a complimentary slipper, that towns are hubs of prosperous activity, mazes of rails, hotbeds of innovation. And the bucolic countryside just the opposite, a restorative balm to the taxing demands of the city. But in that case, I wonder, which have I fled to? Have I discovered country luxury in the town? Have I left the city for… the city?

The inquiry would please Dickens. As I climb into bed between crisp, hotel-white sheets (already turned down) for a nap before dinner (which will be duck with apricots – a country delight), I vow to examine closely the not-so-great divide between town and country luxury.

When I trill to my husband that we are going to a fashionable house in the country, and that Emily Post would advise him to pack knickerbockers and golf stockings, he reminds me to bring the iPod. The fashionable house is The Seven Sisters Inn in Ocala, “Horse Capital of the World.” Victorian country coaches clocked about 15 m.p.h., compared to town express trains that hurtled forth at 50.

Before we reach the inn, we decide to take our own horse-drawn tour from a nearby farm. A strapping English Shire pulls us through the country, and we watch white fences, gracious farms and practice tracks scroll by. In this renowned seat of thoroughbreds and breeders, where horses pose in stables, I recall a favorite pastime of the British aristocracy: riding.

As my husband draws chardonnay from the bucket tucked into our carriage, hurrying to pour us each a glass before the ride is over, I remind him that country time is measured in crop seasons, not by the pocket watch. 

Rain is misting up the windshield when we arrive at the Seven Sisters Inn. A hostess appears at my car window, umbrella in hand (Emily Post urges city-types to pack a parasol). I’m escorted into an 1891 Queen Anne Victorian, one of two inns in the Seven Sisters family and glamorously dubbed “Seven Sisters Around the World.”

The boundaries between town and country blur in the Balinese dining room, where mismatched teacups and saucers are stacked one on top of the other, and a spread of gourmet afternoon samplers awaits. Tea is brewed as we sit on a carved wood bench under Chinese lanterns of all colors and sizes. The fireplace is ornamented with Moroccan-style tiles, and tapestries decorate the walls.

The house has earned its “Florida’s Best Restoration Award,” with its gloriously preserved moldings and colored glass windows, but there’s another influence at work here, too. While my husband takes a stab at the player piano in the parlor, where a Pukah fan churns slowly and rich animal-print mixes with upbeat ginghams, I scope the stairwell. There before me is the door to Argentina.

The inn is a delicious paradox, blending nostalgic country luxury with continental carte blanche and reflecting the travels of the innkeepers, once airline pilots. Both houses are on the National Register of Historic Places. We’re taken upstairs to a hall of countries: a Paris apartment on the right, temple doors from Bali leading to India on the left. We’re deposited in China. I’m in the Orient, by way of the country.

The China room, like its counterparts, is more an experience than an accommodation. The Malaysian hardwood bed has a duvet busy with Chinese characters, and the entrance to the bathroom is a set of colorful temple doors. My husband puts his feet up and starts scanning the newspaper (it’s Chinese), and I marvel at the spa shower with its stone wall and heated towel bars. It’s difficult to leave for dinner, but we do.

Just up the lane is Felix’s, where I enjoy a very un-country cantaloupe martini and Chilean sea bass. When the chef ignites our Bananas Foster, the flames illuminate the dark wood and ornate staircase of this traditional Victorian. Country fried filet mignon shares menu space with Thai pepper shrimp, yet another unorthodox pairing. Once returned to China, I pull our rice paper shades and we unpack – with all the grace of dueling bison – our bedtime dessert basket, which includes champagne, chocolate paté and French cookies.

I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I sense, before falling asleep, that the sheets have been pressed and powdered.

The town balladeers of the 19th century celebrated the cigar and the motor car, I remember, as we deliver our wheels to the valet at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Tampa. Standing before the 12-story hotel, which sports a 50-foot guitar out front, is a clutch of well-heeled young professionals laughing over cigars. If country luxury is spiked these days with a bit of the cosmopolitan, I wonder if city style returns the favor.

In our room, which provides a view of the hotel’s abundant gardens, we find Art Deco-inspired décor in sedate, muted tones, all warmly lit by handsome lamps. To my husband’s delight, the centerpiece is a mini-business hub, complete with a mounted television, stereo system and built-in desk. The bathroom is a sophisticate’s dream: minimalist lines and big sinks. I wrap myself in a fluffy robe, and we conjure up some cosmopolitans from the well-stocked mini bar. Arcadian simplicity this isn’t, but I feel simply elegant all the same. 

In the morning, we jump into the fray, or what English poet Thomas Randolph dubbed “the chargeable noise” of great towns. There are no black sack suits or duck trousers here – sorry, Emily Post – but plenty of beautiful people zipping around. We head for the glamorous 24-hour casino, which, at 90,000 square feet, is buzzing with activity. I gleefully realize that this is exactly like the Victorian’s billiard rooms, on a much larger scale, of course.

Polite society was loathe to play parlor games with dice – lest they be accused of gambling – but card games were common and called “tables.” An attendant whisks us away into the newly refurbished poker room, boasting its own tables (50 of them, to be exact). Here Texas Tea and Double Wild Cherry tournaments are in full swing, the chime of 2,500 gaming machines outside reduced to background music.

Eventually we’re drawn to the Tower of Power, a spectacle of multi-screen video displays, flair bartenders flipping drinks and an amped-up sound system in the center of the casino. It’s a dizzying vision of swimming martinis and lucky winners buying drinks all around. It’s prosperity, in every sense of the word. My husband and I are quick to join in the convivial spirit and make new friends.      

Later, I drag my husband out to the grounds, where we find a courtly pool and guests reclining in traditional Seminole Chickee poolside cabanas – thatched huts that are anything but primitive, with TVs and refrigerators inside. I want to get in a game of horseshoes before we leave the high-style luxury of the Seminole Hard Rock.

When the Victorians used it, down the country meant to go down the slope of land, or as the rivers ran. In this case, the river is the tranquil Steinhatchee and our destination Steinhatchee Landing Resort. Set on Florida’s nature coast, the resort is nearly hidden from the road by tall stands of cypress and pine. But as we drive slowly toward our cottage, under the dappled light and over a creek, we learn that preservation of the natural state of things is a priority here.

Authenticity is too, I note, judging by the exterior of our Florida cracker cottage. We’ve seen perfect Victorians also, as well as a white country chapel with stained glass windows (poetically named Dancing Water’s Chapel), a koi fountain with a statuesque Venus rising out of it and a small vineyard. The resort’s 35-acre landscape is a romantic tribute to 1920s Florida. 

That changes when we enter the cottage. We find ourselves in a dimly lit retreat, the centerpiece a double-sided fireplace with a wide, come-and-sit awhile hearth. A candle on the mantel fills the room with the fragrance of apples, and the impressive stereo system plays soft music. In the bathroom, a whirlpool tub overlooks the gas fireplace. More upscale spa than rustic cottage, I think. But a closer look reveals wide slat antique pine floors, wood beams crossing the high ceiling and a bed plump with pillows. A rag rug, wicker dining set and country kitchen complete the look. We spark up the fire and curl up on the comfy couch in the cool, scented dark.

At sunset, we walk the grounds. We find a bench and a grill placed next to our cottage, an important asset, for this is scalloping country. The river spills right out into the Gulf here, so swimming, canoeing and picnicking are favorite pastimes.

We opt for the nature trail. Soon we’re enclosed in cedar and magnolia, surprised by open expanses of wildflowers and indulged by a particularly chipper pileated woodpecker. We make our way to the 100-year old barn, where Rex the carriage horse is pulling at the grass. The petting zoo is home to goats and ducks, and a glittering lagoon is twirling with lotus and lily pads. The stately Presidential cottage – once occupied by a vacationing Jimmy Carter – is a country estate indeed and has a view of the river, which has turned a deep green in the waning light. If we had lanterns, I’d pick some herbs from the vegetable garden for dinner.

In the morning we dine in the new registration building’s breakfast room, sitting in farmhouse chairs and enjoying the jams and jellies. On the walls are plaques, awards and photographs – I spy a lovely spread in Southern Living magazine. With plans to include another 50 cottages, to make 90 in all, I imagine how the resort will seem even more like a little village.

In the 19th century, country sections each had their own dialects and social mores. Here in the fresh, unexpected luxury of Steinhatchee, the sense of peace and harmony keeps my husband and me quietly relaxed.

Our senses were engaged in Steinhatchee, it’s true, but mine are equally enticed when I unfold on the massage table at the Four Seasons Hotel Miami. As the therapist drizzles warm oils on my back and I hear the gentle clacking of stones that makes this signature treatment, the Splash De-Stress Ocean Stone Massage, so significant, I consider my luxury tour.

At the Four Seasons – where we’ve dined in what felt like a secret garden, the Bahia Terrace, under white café umbrellas and amid underlit trees – uptown leisure has a decidedly out-of-town vibe. It’s the tallest building in Miami and downtown to boot, but it’s an oasis of calm up here in the spa.

In the Palm Grove Pool, where we sat in chaises in the water, palm trees shaded us, and it was quiet enough to while away the afternoon with a book. Even the martini bar keeps it intimate and simple, and banks of floor-to-ceiling windows throughout the hotel invite the outdoors in.

Though sweeping marble floors, a serious Miami and Latin American art collection and thumping Cuban beats at the Bahia Terrace make this a stylishly vibrant retreat, it’s a retreat nonetheless. While I’m wrapped in a sumptuous body cocoon, my husband is using the business center’s high-speed Internet access to catch up on work.

Later we’ll dress for the Dining Room, with its elegant assortment of vintage wines. I’ll toast the Victorians, who appreciated elaborate dinners and candlelight. I’ve decided that town and country luxury is a state of mind. An infinitely dynamic one.   

It’s not difficult to come by pastoral pastimes at Amelia Island Plantation. With live oaks, maritime forests, salt marshes and savannahs to explore, you’ll want to pack a lunch and stop in at Amelia’s Wheels. Just one of many services at the sprawling but secluded resort, you can rent Island Hoppers to coast around the grounds. With seven miles of trails and sites like the Sunken Forest along the way, take a bike to find that perfect patch for picnicking.

Amelia Island Plantation provides expert guides for naturalist tours as well, or you can ramble solo, composing romantic odes to nature. Three championship golf courses and a bevy of clay tennis courts at Racquet Park beckon, too, offering their own glimpses of this preserved paradise and a chance to match up in the temperate Atlantic breeze. Shop the Marché Burette gourmet food market for afternoon refreshment before returning to your elegant oceanfront suite.

In a similar spirit, the White Orchid Inn & Spa at Flagler Beach celebrates the fresh beauty and simple luxury of nature. This seaside inn is awash in shell-inspired pastels and set with fences that are provincially white-picket. You’ll find poster beds and in-suite sitting rooms, as well as deco baths and light wood accents.

Sea salt scrubs and the Moor Mud Facial are back-to-nature treatments available in the bright and breezy spa, and a dip in the inn’s mineral pool will restore the weariest city slicker. Nap in a beachside hammock or read in the shade of the veranda. Full breakfasts, afternoon wine and appetizers and a constant view of the dazzling Atlantic coastline keep guests sated and inspired.

There’s nothing small about the indulgences at St. Augustine’s Small Indulgences European Day Spa & Salon. Whether you’re inclined to dine finely at the best see-and-be-seen The massages offer a range of approaches, from the acutely clinical to the merely relaxing.

Steamships were marvels in the 19th century, merging freedom, speed and leisure. At the Hyatt Regency Pier 66 Resort & Spa in Fort Lauderdale, the lush garden marina and Aquatic Center are testaments to the tradition of haute boating for sport and pleasure.

At this resort in the “Venice of America,” you’ll find a yachting center and dock bustling with mega yachts, a three-pool waterfall oasis for swimming and water taxis to the beach, all set on the Intracoastal waterway. The Aquatic Center offers luxury yachts of all sizes for charter, each professionally staffed and accommodating everything from weddings to sportfishing excursions.