The boat out of Como needs only a few minutes to make the city disappear. The lake opens, the mountains close in behind, and Coco’s silk scarf did what silk scarves are for, streaming in the wind over the water.
Then the breakwater at Torno slid past, and we entered a small world that could have come out of an Ian Fleming novel. A private dock. Staff waiting, unhurried. A house of stone and glass standing at the water’s edge as if it had been expecting the boat by name.
Il Sereno opened in 2016 and turns ten this year without a single wrinkle. Patricia Urquiola drew both the building and everything in it, down to the door handles, as an answer to a question most hotels on this lake refuse to hear: what if a grand hotel on Como simply declined to be nostalgic?
The result is sleek in a way that has nothing to do with cold. Raw and elegant in the same breath. Local Ceppo Lombardo stone, warm walnut, lines borrowed from Terragni, the Como architect who made rationalism beautiful in the thirties. Down the facade run Patrick Blanc’s vertical gardens, green walls growing between the terraces, as if the lake had decided to climb the building slowly.
The suite continued the argument. Urquiola drew a bar cabinet for these rooms that deserves its own paragraph: a piece of furniture with the detailing of fine jewellery, the kind of object that makes opening it feel like a small ceremony.
Beyond the glass, the lake. Every so often one of the classic wooden boats hummed past, and the whole room briefly became a film still.
Most hotels choose between raw and elegant. This one never understood why it should have to choose.
The pool hangs over the lake, eighteen metres of heated freshwater held in a strict rectangle, so the water seems to pour into the water. Beautiful and disciplined at once, like everything else here.
There is a vintage Alfa Romeo for guests who want the coastal road, or so we were told. We talked about it more than once. Coco with the scarf over her hair and sunglasses on, the lake on the wrong side of the car, a long lunch somewhere north. It never happened. Some plans are better kept for the return visit.
Dinner belongs to Raffaele Lenzi, who lost the Michelin star when his predecessor left and won it back in 2023, which says something about this house’s patience. His cooking challenges the palate deliberately. Confident choices, the kind of menu Coco trusts on sight.
Halfway through, a storm rolled down from the mountains, and the rain came in sheets across the lake. We sat dry under the stone arches while the thunder handled the entertainment. No hotel can book weather like that. This one made it feel arranged.
They keep a suite here built entirely around sound, tube amplifiers and vinyl, and the staff wanted to show it to us. It was occupied, of course. A reason to come back, filed away with the Alfa.
On the last evening we came up to the room and found a gift lying on the bed for Coco. A silk scarf, designed by Urquiola. Someone had noticed what she wore at the dock the moment we arrived, and had said nothing, and had remembered.
That is the whole hotel in a single gesture. The architecture pays attention. The kitchen pays attention. And somewhere between the dock and dinner, so did the people.
— Mr. Kim
(the Alfa is for next time)