Driving into Beverly Hills carries a sense of cinematic anticipation. The neighborhood is a patchwork of glossy exteriors and storied interiors, and as I near Canon Drive and Beverly Cánon Gardens, The Maybourne Beverly Hills emerges from the scenery. Its soft lines and pastel facade are understated, blending into the California light rather than competing with it. A welcome quietness settles in as I pull up, the buzz of the city muted.
The lobby offers an immediate sense of presence. There is no frantic rush to impress, just an effortless harmony of polished marble, sunlit spaces, and art that’s both contemporary and comfortably placed. Alex Israel and Damien Hirst are represented here, their works punctuating rather than defining the ambiance. I pause to take it all in, aware of how rarely public spaces feel this considered. The design speaks to a dialogue between eras—modernist influences softened by historic touches that ground the space in a timeless elegance.
The concierge welcomes me with a warmth that is neither fawning nor detached. Moments later, I’m stepping into my suite. The room doesn’t demand your attention—it earns it slowly, through the balance of bespoke furniture, muted pastels, and small, thoughtful details. A shelf of books beckons, curated in a way that suggests someone has imagined the conversations you’ll have with yourself while staying here. The view outside is classic Beverly Hills: palms swaying against a backdrop of the Hollywood Hills.
The next morning, I find myself on the rooftop. Pools at luxury hotels often follow a script, but this one feels different. There’s a natural flow to the way people move through the space, from the private cabanas to the edge of Dante Beverly Hills, where the bartenders appear to have an unspoken understanding of what each guest might need. A spritz arrives at my side before I’ve even glanced at the menu.
By late afternoon, the rooftop transforms with the light. As the sun dips, the hills turn a deeper gold, and the conversations around me seem to slow to match the rhythm. A few tables share wood-fired pizza; others are content with cocktails. The horizon feels infinite, a reminder of the geography and mythology of Los Angeles.
The Maybourne Bar is a world unto itself. Tucked into a quieter corner of the hotel, it’s a study in contrast: intimate without being insular. The Turkish silver onyx bar glows under low lighting, a centerpiece that’s more sculpture than counter. I order a martini, and it arrives—perfectly chilled, almost austere in its precision. The truffle fries that follow are an unexpected indulgence, their richness softened by the subtle luxury that permeates the space.
On my final day, I retreat to the spa. Descending into this quieter part of the hotel feels like stepping out of time. The air is thick with the scent of essential oils, and the mineral pool, lined with gilded mosaics, reflects sunlight in shifting patterns. My chosen treatment, the “Uma Ayurveda Immersion,” is both grounding and transcendent. Warm oil drips methodically across my forehead as tension dissolves under expert hands. I leave lighter, almost unwilling to break the spell by reentering the outside world.
The Maybourne Beverly Hills isn’t a place that shouts for your attention. It invites you to discover it in layers, each space offering its own tempo. By merging historic design elements with contemporary art and modernist architecture, the hotel bridges past and present, creating an experience that feels both rooted and forward-looking. As I pull away from the hotel, its pastel facade fading into the California sun, I’m struck by how it lingers—not as a single memory, but as a series of impressions that unfold long after you’ve left.
