When I moved to Coral Gables in 1983, one of my favorite walks led me to the Biltmore Hotel. At the time it was a grand ruin—paint peeling, windows broken, an abandoned shell rumored to house squatters and even a few red foxes, progeny from the 1920s when guests once hunted foxes on the grounds. I would linger there imagining its Gatsby-era splendor, hoping it might someday be restored.

That hope was realized four years later when the Biltmore reopened as a Four-Star hotel and resort. They ran a special membership program granting access to the spa, gym, pool, a small fourth-floor bar. They even gave a discount to the short-lived seventh-floor restaurant run by a chef from Le Cirque in New York.

For me, though, the best part was the underwater music piped into the newly restored swimming pool. I would swim lap after lap, suspended in water and opera arias. It was nirvana. But sadly, my magic did not last. A few years later I moved away from Segovia, got married and life took over.

Today, whenever I see the Biltmore, standing there in all its restored glory, I think of that long ago walk from Segovia Street; of foxes and faded grandeur, of music drifting through water—and I hope, as we enter this centennial year, that its revival will endure for many decades to come.