Little(?) Pink Houses

UPDATED below (already!)

And yet again. Please keep your "pink houses" coming!

Yes, I know that the Guggenheim isn’t *exactly* a house. I have been thinking about it for the past week, though, as I uncharacteristically return to the advert pages of my New York Magazine, where this image is featured.

Truly, I think it would be lovely if the Guggenheim *were* pink, as a pink building in the midst of Manhattan’s characteristic gray is a lovely amuse bouche.

To wit, here’s the much maligned home of Julian Schnabel:

And stills from a video promoting its luxury apartments for sale.

I would live here. Indeed I would.

It actually reminds me not of an Italian villa, but a grand Cuban hotel I stayed at in Havana: Hotel Armadores de Santander (Shipowners of Santander), right on the water in Old Havana. It had enormous doors looking out onto a gloriously pink-tiled deck.

And pinkish-burgundy tufted leather couches. (The mojitos were perfectly green.)

But perhaps the most pinkish place I’ve stayed in was also in Cuba, the Hotel Horizontes los Jazmines, in the Vinales countryside.

I loved the pink exterior, as well as the stunning view of the mogotes (flat-topped mountains) from my window:

and from the swimming pool.

These images are from the web, but I’ll see whether I can’t find my own, which I've tucked away somewhere. I also have photos of the gorgeously pink bougainvilla at Ernest Hemingway’s home in Cuba.

Updates:

Belle de Ville reminded me that I'd forgotten to include the beautiful pink Beverly Hills Hotel. I visited it in the late 1990s and still have my pink souvenir t-shirt. Wish I'd picked up a bathrobe (though I can't remember whether they were pink . . . )

And below, thanks to a reader's suggestion, is a photo of Don Cesar, in St. Petersburg, Florida. I love the Days of Heaven quality of this photo: it looks like the hotel is alone among the dunes. I have a thing for Days of Heaven-type homes, but that's for another post.

Here's another shot of the Don. This image is a little too jet-ski-set for me; I prefer the illusion of old-world romantic solitude sans noisy technology, and avec books and pitchers of Pimm's. But still . . .