Back to all publicationsDesign Principles · September 18, 2026 · 8 min read
Have You Ever Loved a Hotel but Would Hate to Live There?
This summer I spent time in Lisbon, the Algarve, Marbella, and then London, and by the end of the trip I kept coming back to the same thought: have you ever stayed in a hotel that you absolutely loved, but knew you would hate to live in?
I have, many times. In fact, I think some of the best hotels work precisely because they are not trying to behave like homes.
That may sound obvious, but it is easy to forget because so much of the language around hospitality design now is about making hotels feel more residential. There is certainly value in that. Comfortable furniture, softer lighting, rooms that feel layered instead of institutional, and spaces that do not feel like they were designed by committee are all good things. But I do not really need a hotel to convince me that I am at home. I already have a home. Part of the pleasure of travel is being somewhere different.
A hotel has a very different job to do. It needs to make an impression quickly, create an atmosphere, give you a sense of place, and make ordinary life feel temporarily suspended. It can be more dramatic, more romantic, more impractical, and sometimes more excessive than I would ever want my own home to be. That difference became especially obvious moving through four places with such distinct visual identities.
Lisbon: Pattern, Tile, and the Art of Repetition
Lisbon is almost impossible to separate from its decorative surfaces. You see pattern everywhere, especially in the traditional Portuguese azulejos that cover building façades, churches, stations, and interior walls throughout the city.
The blue-and-white tiles are probably the most recognizable, but what interested me most was the amount of artistry behind them. From a distance, a tiled wall can look like one continuous pattern, but it is really a composition made up of many individual pieces, each one contributing to a much larger image. Some are geometric or floral, while others create full pictorial scenes across entire walls.
There is something I really like about that combination of repetition and craftsmanship. A pattern may look simple when you first see it, but the effect depends on precision, proportion, color, and the way hundreds of individual tiles work together. It is decorative, but it is also disciplined.
The palette itself is part of the appeal. There are the deep cobalt blues against white, but also softer faded blues, ochres, greens, and yellows. Against Lisbon’s stone, plaster, and bright light, those colors feel especially vivid.
What I liked in the hotels there was not necessarily literal reproduction of traditional tile everywhere, but the way designers could take that visual language and reinterpret it. A blue-and-white palette, a patterned floor, a tiled bar, or even the confidence to use repeated pattern can be enough to make a space feel connected to Portugal without turning it into a theme. That distinction matters to me. I like interiors that feel of a place, not interiors that simply collect obvious symbols of it.
The Algarve: When the Landscape Becomes Part of the Interior
Once I moved down to the Algarve, the design language changed almost immediately. The decorative richness of Lisbon gave way to something much more sun-washed and relaxed.
The palette became quieter: chalky whites, warm stone, terracotta, sandy neutrals, bleached woods, and the blues of the water. The light does so much of the work there that the interiors do not need to.
That is something resort hotels can use to their advantage. A room can be relatively simple because the view is the focal point. Texture matters more than ornament. Linen, plaster, stone, woven materials, and timber all become more expressive because the sunlight changes them throughout the day.
I liked that restraint in the context of a hotel. It feels calm and easy, particularly when you are there for a few days and someone else is maintaining it. At home, though, I am not sure I would want quite that much pale upholstery, open space, or visual quiet. There is a point where serenity starts to feel sparse, especially once real life gets involved. That is one of the privileges of hotel design. It can create a controlled version of life that does not need to account for every ordinary thing.
Marbella: The Fun of Going All In
Marbella was probably where the difference between “I love this” and “I would never live like this” became clearest.
A beach hotel in Marbella is not really trying to be subtle. It is selling you a version of Mediterranean life: sun, water, long lunches, drinks outside, oversized daybeds, tropical planting, woven textures, and spaces that make you feel like you are very obviously on vacation.
There are also the deeper Andalusian references underneath that resort layer: whitewashed architecture, courtyards, terracotta, arches, patterned tile, and shaded spaces designed around the heat. Spanish tile traditions are particularly beautiful because of the way geometry, color, and repetition are used almost like fabric. Floors and walls can become highly decorative without needing much else around them.
What makes Marbella interesting is how those traditional references can sit alongside a much more glamorous beach-club sensibility. The result can be quite theatrical, and in a hotel I think that is part of the fun.
Give me the dramatic pool, the oversized planting, the textured furniture, and the room that looks perfect against blue water. I am very happy to live in that world for a few nights. Would I want it as my permanent environment? Probably not. And I do not think that diminishes the design at all. In some ways, it is the point. A hotel can be completely successful because it creates a fantasy that works beautifully for a temporary stay.
London: Richer, Darker, and More Layered
London was almost the opposite experience.
The design references are much more layered and, in many cases, much closer to my own taste. Darker woods, richer colors, decorative moldings, tailored upholstery, brass, patterned carpets, libraries, drawing rooms, and interiors that feel intentionally more enclosed all feel very natural in the city.
One hotel in particular captures that sense of drama exceptionally well. You move through spaces filled with polished stone, richly veined marble, dark woods, bronze tones, and an extraordinary amount of mirror. The mirrors are not treated as small decorative accessories; they become part of the architecture. They line walls and passageways, reflect lighting and ceilings, and multiply the materials around them. Combined with strong marble patterns and grand stone surfaces, the effect is polished, glamorous, and slightly theatrical.
I especially like the use of marble because it is not confined to a bathroom or used as a small accent. It becomes part of the larger language of the property. Different stones appear throughout, sometimes highly figured and sometimes more restrained, but always in a way that makes materiality feel intentional and important.
The mirrors do something similar. In a home, that much reflection could become exhausting very quickly. In a hotel, it works because it amplifies the experience. It makes spaces feel larger, catches warm evening light, and creates a sense of movement as you walk through them. It is one of those design decisions I can appreciate enormously in hospitality while knowing I would never want quite that much mirror in my own home.
That is probably where London made the central idea of the trip most interesting for me. Some of the design language is very much aligned with what I naturally like: deep color, traditional detailing, layered materials, and rooms with atmosphere. But even within that more familiar vocabulary, hotels can still take things several steps further than I ever would residentially.
The lighting can be moodier. The marble can be more dramatic. The mirrors can cover entire sections of a room. A seating arrangement can be designed around cocktails and conversation rather than how someone actually spends a Tuesday night at home. And that is exactly why it works.
London hotels have such a deep architectural vocabulary to pull from. Georgian proportion, Victorian ornament, private clubs, historic townhouses, and traditional English interiors can all influence a space without making it feel old-fashioned.
The city also has a confidence around color and pattern that I love. Burgundy, forest green, tobacco, navy, and deep red can all appear together in ways that might feel heavy elsewhere but somehow work in London. Wallpaper, carpet, upholstery, and drapery can all be present at once and still feel composed.
On the Portuguese coast, interiors are responding to strong natural light. In London, some of the best spaces do the opposite: they lean into shadow, warm lamps, reflective surfaces, and darker materials rather than trying to make everything bright. It creates a completely different kind of luxury, and after Marbella and the Algarve, that contrast was part of what made it so enjoyable.
The Best Hotels Know Exactly What They Are
The biggest thing I took away from the trip was not a list of ideas I wanted to bring home. It was a reminder that good design is not always about personal taste.
I can walk into a room and think it is incredibly successful without wanting to own a single thing in it. I can appreciate an interior because it is completely right for Lisbon, Marbella, or London even if it would be completely wrong for me.
The better question is not always, “Would I live here?” It is, “Is this space doing what it is supposed to do?”
A hotel in Lisbon should not feel interchangeable with one in London. A beach resort in Marbella should not be afraid to feel like a beach resort. A property in the Algarve can be quieter because the landscape is doing so much of the work.
The hotels I remember most are usually the ones that have a clear point of view and a strong sense of place. They do not try to make everyone comfortable by becoming generic. And maybe that is why the “I love it, but I would hate to live here” reaction is not actually a criticism at all. Sometimes it is the highest compliment.
Frequently Asked Questions
What makes hotel interior design different from residential interior design?
Hotel interiors are designed around a temporary guest experience. They need to create atmosphere quickly, establish a strong identity, and often communicate something about the destination. Residential interiors have to respond to daily routines, storage, long-term comfort, and the way people actually live over time.
How can hotels reflect local design without feeling themed?
The strongest hospitality interiors usually reinterpret local architecture, materials, colors, and craftsmanship rather than reproducing them literally. In Portugal, that might mean referencing azulejo patterns and blue-and-white palettes. In southern Spain, it could mean drawing from courtyards, terracotta, arches, or patterned tile.
Why can a hotel be beautiful but impractical as a home?
Hotels can prioritize atmosphere because so much everyday functionality is handled behind the scenes. Guests bring fewer possessions, housekeeping resets the room, and many spaces are designed for shorter periods of use. That gives designers much more freedom to prioritize mood and visual impact.
What makes a hotel interior memorable?
Usually a clear point of view. The most memorable hotels feel specific to their location and combine architecture, lighting, materials, color, art, and furniture in a way that feels intentional rather than generic.
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