When a City Chooses You
Vittorio Curatella

Words Ruby DaviesImages Michal Rzepecki

For Vittorio Curatella, the mind behind Elizabeth Hotels, hospitality is something inherited.

His first property in Rome, founded with his father, Giovanni Curatella, introduced a heartfelt sensibility reflected in the name above the door—his grandmother, Elizabeth. Years later, they were drawn to Venice.

Inside a restored 15th-century home in Cannaregio, historically a working-class district of artisans, merchants, and laborers, that same warmth takes on a quieter, more personal form: shaped by memory, imperfection, and the particular silence only Venice knows how to hold. Original beams, worn floors, and a rare inner garden tell the story of centuries lived within these walls. Unhurried and unpolished in the best possible way, this is Venice at its most intimate.

We sat down with Vittorio Curatella to talk restoration, memory, and what it truly means to make a guest feel at home in one of the world’s most visited—and least understood—cities.

Your roots aren’t in Venice. So what actually drew you here?

Venice has always had this pull on me, this ability to exist outside of time. I grew up in Basilicata, which is a deeply authentic, rooted kind of place, and I recognized that same emotional intensity in Venice. It felt more like a fateful encounter. Venice chooses you before you choose it, if that makes sense.

What’s your earliest sensory memory of the city?

Silence. Which sounds strange, because there are people everywhere—but I remember feeling this suspended, almost unreal quality to it. Today I see it through much more intimate eyes. It’s no longer an icon I’m observing from the outside. It’s a place I inhabit slowly. Venice changes completely when you stop passing through and start actually listening to it.

You chose Cannaregio. Most visitors don’t. Why there?

Cannaregio is the everyday Venice—authentic, lived-in, real. I wanted to create a place where guests could feel part of the city rather than spectators of it. I believe in a kind of hospitality that’s discreet and deep, shaped by atmosphere and details rather than grand gestures or showing off.

When you first walked into a 15th-century building that had always been a home, what did you feel you owed it?

Respect. I didn’t want to transform it into something artificial, something designed purely for tourism. The challenge was to preserve its domestic soul—its memory, the sense of hospitality it had held for centuries. We spent months restoring the original wooden beams, kept the original staircase, and parts of the original flooring. It was a real challenge, honestly. But it was the only way to do it right.

Was there a detail that almost didn’t make it through the restoration?

The imperfections. Some of the original traces on the walls, the ancient structures, the marks left by time. A lot of people would have preferred to standardize everything, make it flawless. But those imperfections are exactly what tell the story of the building. In Venice, beauty is never sterile—it lives in the material itself, in the years that have passed through it.

The garden is something rare in Venice. What does it feel like to be there before the guests arrive?

It’s probably the most precious moment of my day. There’s a calm that’s hard to explain, almost private. The garden creates this invisible distance from the rhythm of the city and gives you back a quieter, more personal version of Venice. It naturally invites you to slow down and just think.

The hotel in Rome was named after your grandmother, Elizabeth. Does that name mean something different here in Venice?

Yes, completely. Elizabeth represents an idea of authentic elegance and warm, never intrusive hospitality. In Venice, it takes on an even deeper emotional weight because everything here speaks of memory, time, and legacy. It feels like an invisible thread connecting these places to my personal story. And there’s something else—my grandmother spent her honeymoon in Venice. For me, being here with her name above the door feels like a circle completing itself.

Growing up in Basilicata, you couldn’t have been further from Venice. Does that distance change how you see it?

I think it does. Coming from far away means I’ve never taken Venice for granted. I still look at it with wonder and respect. And I carry with me a Mediterranean sensibility—something deeply connected to humanity, to the sense of home, to the authenticity of real relationships. That shapes everything.

If a guest leaves and goes home with just one image in their mind, what do you hope it is?

More than an image, I’d hope it’s a feeling. The soft late-afternoon light coming through the windows. The silence of the water. The sensation of having experienced a private, authentic Venice—far from the stereotypes. That’s the Venice I want people to take with them.

You’ve said you want Venice to be felt, not shown. What’s the difference?

Showing Venice is easy—its beauty is everywhere, you can’t miss it. Making someone feel it is something else entirely. It means creating emotional connections through the rhythm of the spaces, the light, the materials, the silence, the way a guest is welcomed. Every detail has to convey intimacy and authenticity, without theatricality.

When you’re in Venice with no agenda—no guests, no meetings—where do you go?

I love getting lost in the quieter streets of Cannaregio, or wandering the city during its most peaceful hours. Venice offers these moments that are so simple but so profoundly moving: the sound of the water, the winter fog, the evening light. That evening light in Venice is unlike anything else. It’s soft, different, a light that transports you back in time. Those are the things that help you slow down and find clarity again.