The Grand Hotel et de Milan in Salsomaggiore Terme stands as one of Italy’s most fascinating testaments to the Belle Époque era — a time when luxury, wellness, and art came together under the banner of European elegance.
It was at the turn of the 20th century, when Salsomaggiore Terme was emerging as one of the most fashionable spa destinations in Europe, that the Grand Hotel was conceived. The town’s saline-bromine-iodine waters were celebrated for their healing properties, attracting aristocrats, diplomats, and artists from across the continent. To accommodate this sophisticated clientele, the local elite commissioned a grand hotel that could rival the finest establishments in Paris, London, and Vienna.
Designed by the Milanese architect Luigi Broggi, the hotel opened its doors in 1901 under the name Grand Hôtel des Thermes. It was a marvel of its time — over three hundred rooms, state-of-the-art heating, a vast park, tennis courts, and sumptuous interiors decorated in the Liberty style. Everything about it spoke of modernity and refinement. In the years that followed, the hotel caught the attention of famed hoteliers César Ritz and Alphons Pfyffer, who took over its management and, eventually, ownership around 1910. Under their direction, the Grand Hotel became one of the jewels of European hospitality.
The 1920s brought a new wave of artistic splendor. The architect Ugo Giusti and the celebrated artist Galileo Chini enriched the building with bold Liberty and Moorish-inspired decorations. The Salone Moresco, with its intricate patterns and glowing colors, remains one of the most remarkable examples of early 20th-century interior design in Italy. For decades, the Grand Hotel was the beating heart of Salsomaggiore’s high society — a place where elegance met leisure, and where the international elite came to take the waters, dance, and dine in opulent surroundings.
But like many symbols of the Belle Époque, the hotel’s golden age could not last forever. After World War II, tastes and economies changed. Tourism shifted, and Salsomaggiore’s glamorous clientele began to fade.
When I visited it, the place hadn’t been vandalized yet. It felt like stepping straight into the pages of Murakami’s Dance Dance Dance, with echoes of Kubrick and King hanging in the air. The whole complex was massive — endless hallways, silent rooms, a strange stillness that made time feel uncertain. But there was only one thing that truly stayed with me: the central hall. That room… I’ll never forget it.