Inside the St. Regis Kanai Resort in Riviera Maya, Where Design Comes First

There are hotels you stay in, and hotels you contemplate. The St. Regis Kanai Resort, Riviera Maya firmly belongs to the latter category.

When I arrived earlier this year, as we checked in, my other half whispered to me only half joking that at any moment people in white robes might emerge, gliding silently toward us like extras from a sleek, futuristic film. A giggle escaped before I could stop it. This was a different kind of check-in. It felt less like entering a hotel and more like walking into a work of art that was unlike any modern or avant-garde property I had visited before. The architecture had already done its work: it disoriented, elevated, and subtly instructed us to lower our voices, as if we had crossed not into a resort but into something closer to a temple.

That reaction, it turns out, was entirely the point.

Much has already been written about the architectural ambition of the St. Regis Kanai Resort in Riviera Maya. Critics have praised its low-slung geometry, its reverence for the surrounding mangroves, and its careful choreography of light and shadow. And yes, the amenities are undeniable: private plunge pools, impeccable service, the kind of quiet luxury that never asks to be photographed but inevitably is. Yet what struck me most was not indulgence, but intention.

The hotel does not sit on the land so much as it listens to it.

Threaded through protected mangroves, the property reflects both an ode to sustainability and a pragmatic adherence to Mexico’s tightened environmental protection laws. But to reduce the design to regulatory compliance would miss the deeper story. Pathways curve rather than cut. Structures hover and recede, allowing water, roots, and wildlife to maintain primacy. Nature is not framed as a view; it is treated as a collaborator.

This ethos extends to the hotel’s homage to ancient Mayan traditions. Too often, luxury developments in the region rely on surface-level references like decorative glyphs, pyramid silhouettes that stripped of meaning. Here, the engagement runs deeper. The design reveals an intricate study of Mayan spatial philosophy: axial alignments, ceremonial progression, and an understanding of light as spiritual medium.

You can sense where the developers set the parameters; and where the real magic began. That moment came with the selection of architect Michael Edmonds, whose skill and restraint transformed this slice of the Riviera Maya into something far more ambitious than a luxury resort. His multifaceted approach leverages the natural environment not as backdrop, but as integral design material, placing the property in a league of its own.

Light, at the St. Regis, is never static. Morning light spills gently across limestone surfaces, diffused and forgiving. By midday, the sun sharpens edges, emphasizing geometry and restraint. At dusk, the property softens again, shadows lengthening as if the buildings themselves are exhaling. It is impossible to spend a full day here without becoming acutely aware of time. Not clock time, but something older and more elemental.

And yet, for all its beauty, the hotel resists easy relaxation.

This is not the kind of place where you lose track of hours in a poolside daze, cocktail sweating into a paperback novel. There is a noticeable absence of what might be called “let-your-hair-down” vacation energy. No raucous laughter drifting from swim-up bars, no sense of carefree abandon. Instead, the St. Regis Kanai Resort in Riviera Maya feels like an architectural museum you are permitted to luxuriously sleep inside. A fully immersive exhibit, where you are both observer and artifact.

I didn’t dislike this. But I noticed it.

Perhaps because, while wandering the grounds, I found myself doing what the hotel seems to invite: thinking. Reading. Falling down a rabbit hole about the architect behind the vision, Michael Edmonds. I learned about his career, his long relationship with Mexico, and most charmingly that his wife is Mexican. Once that detail lodged itself in my mind, I couldn’t shake a question I knew was slightly indulgent: what if this place is also a love letter?

What if, beneath the rigor and reverence, this masterpiece is, in some quiet way, an offering to a woman, to a partnership, to a life shared? The thought made me smile, even as I laughed at myself for entertaining it. I could practically hear my best friend from my study-abroad days in Spain reacting with a dramatic, “OMG, I just vomited in my mouth.” Fair enough; I would probably respond the same way if the roles were reversed.

Still, architecture has always been emotional, whether we admit it or not. Cathedrals were built for God, yes but also for devotion, longing, and awe. Why should modern masterpieces be any different? Why couldn’t a hotel, with all its discipline and restraint, also carry something tender within it?

That tension between intellect and feeling, control and vulnerability may be what lingers most about the St. Regis Kanai Resort in Riviera Maya. It is serene but not playful. Beautiful but not carefree. It asks you to observe, to reflect, to move slowly and notice details. In doing so, it quietly challenges our assumptions about what a luxury vacation should be.

Perhaps that is its provocation.

In an era when travel increasingly prioritizes stimulation with more spectacle, more noise, more excess; this hotel dares to be contemplative. It does not seduce you with fun. It invites you into thought. And if you are willing to accept that invitation, you may find yourself, like I did, not just rested, but unexpectedly moved.

Even if you laugh at yourself for it later.

The Last Ashtrays of Capitol Hill: Inside D.C.’s Forgotten Restaurant Relics

There was a time—not long ago—when a Washington, D.C. power lunch wasn’t complete without three things: a martini, a cigarette, and a well-placed ashtray. Before smoking bans and the tyranny of smartphones, restaurants were more than dining rooms; they were theaters of ritual and influence. Deals were whispered over cigarettes, crises averted with a stiff drink, and, for reasons that now seem absurd, ashtrays were bolted into bathroom stalls.

Capitol Hill’s Time Capsules

While most of the city has traded smoke-filled rooms for sleek wellness menus and oat milk lattes, a few Capitol Hill institutions still carry the faint scent of another age. Step inside one such haunt and you’ll find the ghosts of mid-century politics: wood-paneled walls, a lonely telephone booth by the entrance, and yes—an ashtray screwed into the side of a bathroom stall.

These details aren’t just curiosities. They’re stage props from a time when a restroom break could mean lighting up, collecting your thoughts, or continuing a heated debate without skipping a drag.

The Rise and Fall of the Bathroom Ashtray

For decades, the stall-side ashtray was as common as a coat check or a linen napkin. By the late 1980s and ’90s, smoking bans swept across the country. The Clean Indoor Air Act and its successors banished cigarettes from the indoors and rendered restroom ashtrays not just outdated but unthinkable. By the 2000s, they had disappeared almost entirely—joining the ranks of other extinct restaurant amenities like matchbooks, maître d’ podiums stacked with bribes, and unspoken “three-martini” workdays.

The Martini Lunch and Its Forgotten Accoutrements

The martini lunch was more than an indulgence—it was a civic ritual. Politicians, ad men, and lobbyists ducked into steakhouses and hotel bars, stretching “lunch hour” into entire afternoons. Cigarettes and cigars were as much a part of the table setting as bread baskets.

And then there were the telephone booths—dim, discreet, and essential. In pre-cell-phone Washington, a well-timed call from a booth could shift a legislative vote or close a corporate merger. Swap the rotary phone for a burner, and you’ve got a set piece fit for today’s political dramas.

Relics in Plain Sight

Most restaurants have shed these ghosts, but in Washington, a handful still preserve the atmosphere. That forgotten ashtray, that lonely phone booth—they remind us that the tools of influence were once tangible. You flicked ashes between paragraphs, closed deals between drags, and dialed decisions from a booth by the bar.

If yesterday’s ashtrays could be repurposed today, they’d likely fill with discarded talking points or the ashes of campaign promises. The booths? Perfect spots to upload leaks under the glow of stained glass and brass fixtures.

The Cultural Shift—and What We’ve Lost

In 2025, the idea of smoking in a bathroom stall sounds absurd, even comic. But these relics weren’t just about nicotine—they were symbols of a slower, stranger political rhythm. Lunches stretched. Conversations lingered. The performance of power unfolded not on Slack or X (formerly Twitter), but through smoke, glass, and whispered favors.

And yet, politics hasn’t really changed—it’s just swapped props. Yesterday’s ashtrays are today’s encrypted text chains. Yesterday’s smoke-filled rooms are today’s Zoom backchannels. The theater remains; the scenery has been updated.

Why These Relics Still Matter

As D.C. restaurants embrace polished modernity, the few that cling to their ashtrays and phone booths stand as living monuments. They remind us of a different Washington—messier, smokier, and maybe more honest about the vices that powered it.

So the next time you stumble across a bathroom ashtray in a Capitol Hill restaurant, don’t dismiss it as junk. Consider it a museum piece in plain sight—a reminder that history doesn’t always sit behind glass. Sometimes it lingers on the wall of a bathroom stall, waiting for the next chapter in Washington’s long-running political satire.

Charleston's Culinary Evolution: The Saga Behind Sorelle’s Arrival

Charleston, with its cobblestone streets and antebellum architecture, is a city deeply protective of its past. But it is also a city evolving, where history and modernity often find themselves in a delicate dance. Nowhere is this tension more evident than in the journey to establish Sorelle, the acclaimed Italian restaurant by Michael Mina, nestled in the heart of the Holy City. The road to its opening was as complex as the flavors it now serves, requiring bold vision, strategic maneuvering, and a deep understanding of Charleston’s intricate zoning and preservation landscape.

A Vision, and a Challenge

Sorelle is the brainchild of Beemok Hospitality Collection (BHC), led by Charleston-based businessman and philanthropist Ben Navarro. Bringing a Michael Mina restaurant to Charleston was no small feat. Navarro, recognizing the city’s rising status as a culinary destination, saw an opportunity to introduce a new level of fine Italian dining to the Lowcountry. But first, he had to secure a location that could accommodate his vision—a challenge in a city where historic preservation reigns supreme and commercial expansion is scrutinized with a discerning eye.

The chosen site was not a single structure but rather a collection of three historic townhomes, originally built for John Laurens sometime between 1793 and 1804. These buildings, which had housed a variety of small businesses and residences over the decades, had to be thoughtfully integrated into one cohesive space. Taking a cue from its 1800s-era origins (the building was the site of a Hebrew school run by two sisters), the restaurant was aptly named Sorelle, meaning “sisters” in Italian. The project was brought to life by renowned design firm Meyer Davis, which meticulously transformed the historic structures into a stunning multi-concept dining experience.

Zoning Hurdles and Historic Sensitivities

Charleston’s zoning process is famously rigorous. Any alteration to the city’s historic fabric must pass through layers of review, from the Board of Architectural Review (BAR) to city planners and neighborhood councils. Converting these existing structures into a fully functional restaurant meant securing new zoning approvals that allowed for commercial food service in a space previously designated for other uses.

Neighbors and preservationists, wary of large-scale commercial developments in historic corridors, voiced concerns about potential disruptions—noise, increased traffic, and the ever-looming threat of Charleston’s rapid commercialization. The team behind Sorelle had to demonstrate that their project would enhance, rather than detract from, the city’s historic integrity. They leaned into the architectural character of the buildings, preserving facades and original details, while making the case that Sorelle would be a cultural asset rather than an intrusion.

Why Charleston?

The decision to bring a Michael Mina restaurant to Charleston was not arbitrary. Over the last decade, Charleston has emerged as a national culinary powerhouse, drawing attention from chefs and restaurateurs eager to be part of its thriving food scene. The city’s reputation for hospitality, its affluent visitor base, and its deep-rooted food culture made it a prime location for a new culinary investment.

But beyond the business case, there was also a personal element. Navarro believed that Charleston’s dining scene was ready for a restaurant that could seamlessly blend high-end Italian cuisine with the city’s warm, Southern sensibilities. By selecting a historic property and honoring its past while adapting it for the future, he aimed to create a restaurant that would not only serve exquisite food but also tell a story—a story of Charleston’s ongoing evolution.

A Testament to Charleston’s Future

Sorelle officially opened its doors on February 15, 2023, bringing six distinct dining concepts under one roof. From a lively café and wine bar to an intimate chef’s counter and upscale dining space, the restaurant offers a multifaceted experience that reflects the layered history of the building itself.

Sorelle’s journey to completion was one of patience, negotiation, and adaptation—a microcosm of Charleston itself. The city’s deep respect for history ensures that any new venture must first prove itself worthy of the space it seeks to inhabit. But when done right, the result is a blend of past and future, a reminder that progress and preservation need not be at odds.

Now, as diners enjoy house-made pastas and impeccably sourced seafood under the glow of restored historic fixtures, Sorelle stands as more than just a restaurant. It is a testament to Charleston’s ability to evolve without erasing its identity, a reflection of a city that welcomes the new while honoring the old. And in that balance lies Charleston’s enduring charm.