Wifi review insights for Florida, United States

A fabulous experience, a very well-located hotel, very close to PIER 5 and BAYSIDE…with renovated, very spacious rooms, a very comfortable bed, and a large bathroom. Breakfast was in the restaurant next to the hotel. Abundant and delicious buffet breakfast. The staff's demeanor was very approachable and pleasant. In particular, a shout-out to the receptionist, Almudena, who is Spanish, with whom we connected very well. She helped us at all times and made our stay wonderful. We will return and recommend it 100%.

Absolutely great hotel. We were upgraded immediately upon arrival and the room was super large and had a great view from the 19th floor. The Atwell rooms only start on the 16th floor, so you always have a great view here. Breakfast and bar on the 24th floor are accordingly also great. The hotel is super connected to all possible public transport. And accordingly also easily reachable from the airport. I can warmly recommend it!

Best kept secret in Miami. Whether you’re looking to rent, or stay for a long weekend, Sentral Wynwood is perfect. The rooms are beautiful, the amenities are like a 4-star hotel, and above all… the staff is so attentive, available, and they go above and beyond for anything you might need. For example, our TV was having a problem connecting to WiFi, and within 30 minutes, maintenance had it fixed. The room’s bath/shower is like a spa. The pool and social space on the roof is gorgeous. I will 100% be staying here again!

10’s A CROSS THE BROAD The property was very beautiful and we loved it was connect to the Mall. Everything was nice and clean, it was definitely the smell when you enter the lobby that just made it feel so warm and welcoming. The poolside service absolutely amazing they made 12 year old feel like a little celebrity. Yasmani could we just say amazing!!.. My family justt had a wonderful experience all around.

A Brief Account of A Most Splendid Sojourn at the Eden Roc, Miami Beach It has been precisely fifty years since last I set foot upon the sun-drenched shores of Miami Beach. The year was 1976, and Miami was an altogether different creature than the magnificent, shimmering beast she presents herself as today. The city possessed a certain raw, untamed quality, like a young thoroughbred not yet broken to saddle, and the hotels, while grand in their own fashion, carried about them the faint whiff of a glory slightly past its zenith, like a duchess at her third ball of the evening. Many of the gentlemen I encountered still bore about their eyes that particular haunted vacancy one associated with young men who had given rather too much in Southeast Asia and returned to find the country had largely decided to discuss something else. One simply bought them a drink and spoke of baseball. But I digress. I am rather famous among my associates for digressing. My solicitor, Pemberton, has upon more than one occasion billed me for the extra hours consumed by my digressions. A scoundrel, but a thorough one. Which brings me, with perhaps more elegance than my usual standard of transition, to the Eden Roc Miami Beach, a hotel so thoroughly, so uncomplicatedly, so joyfully magnificent that I find myself wondering why on earth I stayed away for fifty years and rather strongly suspecting that the mango business was to blame for rather more of my life’s misfortunes than I had previously credited it with. I was, in 1976, a young Englishman of twenty-three years, possessed of considerable optimism, considerably less wisdom, and the unshakeable conviction that my fortune lay in the export of tropical fruit. Yes. Fruit. Specifically mangoes. Armed with a leather briefcase, a Rolodex of questionable contacts, and an uncle who claimed to know someone in Barbados, I spent three weeks haunting Miami’s docks discussing import tariffs that would have made a lesser man weep in public. I very nearly wept in private. The whole enterprise collapsed spectacularly when my Barbados contact turned out to own a greengrocer’s shop perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy. I returned to England without a single mango and possessed of a new and lasting suspicion of uncles bearing business leads. And yet, and here Providence reveals her peculiar sense of humour, it was during those very wanderings that I happened into a small jeweller’s establishment and found myself standing before a case of uncut Colombian emeralds of such breathtaking, luminous, heart-stopping beauty that I stood motionless for what the jeweller later informed me was eleven minutes. Eleven minutes. Standing. Staring. Like a man who has heard the voice of God issue from a display cabinet. I have been in the precious gemstone trade for forty-seven years since that afternoon. I have never once regretted the mangoes, although on particularly difficult days in Antwerp I have occasionally regretted the biscuit. Now. I feel I must pause here, and Pemberton, put the billing ledger down, this is relevant, to speak briefly of a gentleman I knew called Captain Douglas. He served in Korea in the early 1950s, when the world had scarcely finished burying its dead from one catastrophic conflict before commencing another, as though the nations of the earth were operating under some sort of subscription model for organised tragedy. He was the sort of sturdy Yorkshireman who could describe harrowing events in the tone one might use for a mildly disappointing cricket match. “The thing about that war,” he said once, “is that it never really ended. It just stopped making noise for a while.” I raised a glass to him at the Eden Roc bar, a warm, handsome, deeply civilised room he would have approved of enormously, particularly the whisky selection and the complete absence of anything resembling a frozen Korean ridge. He died in 2019 at eighty-nine, having more than earned his rest. Small mercies, Captain Douglas. Small mercies. There is about the entire public space of the Eden Roc a quality of considered, generous elegance that one encounters rather rarely. The proportions are right. The light is right. The noise levels are calibrated to permit actual human conversation, which in the current era of hotels apparently designed by people who have never had a conversation and do not intend to start, is nothing short of revolutionary. I wandered through on my first evening in that golden Miami light that does something entirely unreasonable to every surface it touches and found myself simply, repeatedly, pleased. The staff, good Lord, the staff. From the moment one’s motor car sweeps beneath that magnificent porte-cochere, one is enveloped in an atmosphere of unhurried professionalism that I had frankly begun to suspect was a thing of the past, like telegram boys or seriousness in parliament. Here one is seen. One is attended to. One feels, improbably and wonderfully, like a person of consequence. The check-in process was, and I choose this word with the care of a man who has spent five decades evaluating rare stones, immaculate. Not so hasty as to suggest one was being processed like a parcel through the post, nor so languorous as to imply a committee was being convened on the matter. The young men at the front desk were both possessed of eyes of a remarkable vivid blue, the precise blue of a fine Kashmir sapphire, warm, deep, velvety. They were courteous. They were kind. They remembered one’s name. In my book, and I have a very large book on this subject, that is everything. The room was of such tasteful, considered elegance that I stood in the doorway long enough to inconvenience the young man carrying my luggage, for which I offer a belated apology and the assurance that his tip was entirely unaffected. The bed was extraordinary. I slept the deep, uncomplicated sleep of a man who has set down every concern he possesses and left them in a neat pile by the door. I woke feeling, and I do not employ this word carelessly, restored. The balcony revealed itself as the room’s greatest treasure. Stepping out onto it that first morning, coffee in hand, the Atlantic spread before me in its vast and magnificent entirety, I experienced one of those moments of pure, uncomplicated gratitude for being alive that one cannot manufacture but can, apparently, stumble into at half past eight in Miami Beach. The sun warmed one’s bones in that deep, penetrating way that the English sun, God bless its pale and watery efforts, has simply never quite managed in all its earnest trying. That balcony alone would have justified the journey from London, the cost of the flight, and frankly a moderate amount of additional suffering beyond that. Now. The pool. And here, Pemberton, the ledger goes down, because what follows is not a digression but a confession, and there is a difference. I have attended every International Gemological Conference since 1980. Every one. I have attended in snow, in illness, in grief, in one memorable instance in a condition of such profound jet lag that I valued a synthetic spinel as a natural alexandrite in front of fourteen colleagues, a professional humiliation I have spent fifty years attempting to offset with a rigour that has occasionally been described as excessive. I have never missed one. Except Tremezzo, 1989, which I did not miss so much as fail to arrive at, on account of the following. I was travelling by train from Milan, alone in a compartment, holding in my briefcase a personal parcel of unheated Burmese rubies I was bringing to show colleagues, each one the precise colour that the word red was invented to describe and immediately failed to cover, when the train stopped in a field between stations for reasons that were never explained, and a woman got on. Not at a station. In a field. She was carrying a small cage containing a bird I did not recognise, she sat down opposite me, she looked at the briefcase, she said in English with an accent I could not place then and cannot place now, that whatever was in the case was probably the best thing I owned and that I should be careful with it, and then she fell completely and immediately asleep. When the train reached Varenna she was gone. The cage was gone. There was no subsequent station at which she could have boarded and I have consulted the timetables more than once. I arrived at Tremezzo four hours late and missed the entire first day including the session on ruby chromatic grading criteria for which I had prepared a paper. I have told this story to no one. Not because I am embarrassed by it but because I have never found a context in which it fits. It fits here. The Eden Roc pool produced in me, standing at its edge on my second morning watching the Miami sun conduct its extraordinary proceedings on the water, the same feeling I had looking out of that stopped train at a field in Lombardy in 1989 while a woman I could not account for slept opposite me with a bird I could not name. The feeling of being inside a moment that has suspended the usual rules without asking permission, that requires nothing from you except your full and undivided presence, that will not repeat itself and knows it. Some pools are amenities. This one is that train, stopped in a field, the light doing something unreasonable, the world briefly and completely still. The pool attendant arrived with a fresh drink and an expression of cheerful uncomplicated helpfulness. I tipped him rather generously. He deserved it. So did the field. The beach continued the theme with magnificent consistency. Staff appeared at precisely the moment one began to wonder whether one wanted anything, smiling genuine smiles, moving with the easy confidence of people who trust one another completely. The Eden Roc beach is a fixed point. Warm, safe, tended, human. I had a second drink and watched a pelican conduct its business with admirable focus. Then I had a third and watched the pelican again, in case it did something else. It did not, particularly, but one felt considerably better for the vigilance. We understood each other, that pelican and I. The spa deserves its own meditation. I emerged from it profoundly, almost medically, serene, reminding me of a small bathhouse in Chengdu in 1998 where the silence had accumulated the peace of centuries and was offering it back at a very favourable rate. The Eden Roc spa reproduced this quality with remarkable fidelity. One emerged feeling that one’s component parts had been carefully disassembled, inspected, and restored with a level of structural integrity one had not experienced since approximately 1987. Chengdu also gave me my first encounter with the giant panda, and I will say only this: they are among the most quietly, cosmically magnificent creatures with whom we share this increasingly complicated planet, they are desperately endangered, and the world would be immeasurably poorer without them. I would ask that anyone reading these words direct some portion of their goodwill toward ensuring this extraordinary animal remains upon the earth. The panda connects, in my mind, to everything rare and unhurried and entirely itself, of which there is increasingly little, and of which the Eden Roc is, in its own thoroughly civilised fashion, a rather fine example. One must speak of Flavio. One must always speak of Flavio. Flavio, presiding over Ocean Social with the authority and panache of a man not merely born to that position but who one suspects may have personally designed it to suit himself, had the position not previously existed the universe would have been ethically obliged to create it, is an absolute, unimprovable, category-defining delight. The man is funny. Genuinely, naturally, spontaneously funny without apparent effort and without any sacrifice of warmth. He is the sort of funny that makes one laugh before one has quite understood why, which is the highest form of the art, and the sort that sends one’s drink down the wrong way, which is the greatest possible compliment, and which I awarded him on no fewer than two occasions to my considerable respiratory discomfort and his entirely justified satisfaction. But it is his voice, and the accent that clothes it, that I wish to particularly commend. Flavio is Italian, this is gloriously apparent from the first syllable, and his accent falls upon the English language not as an imposition but as an enhancement. I found myself thinking, as he described dishes with a lyrical enthusiasm that made the menu sound like poetry that happened also to be edible, that his voice was harmonious in precisely the way of a blackbird’s morning song, a sound of such liquid, effortless, heart-lifting beauty that generations of composers have attempted to reproduce it and generations of listeners have understood, upon hearing the original, why those attempts always fell somewhat short. Flavio’s accent carries that same quality, natural, unforced, and considerably more beautiful than it has any strict obligation to be. And I will say this as well, because I am seventy-three and have long since abandoned pretending not to notice such things: the man is quite remarkably handsome. Flavio is, in the taxonomy of attractive human beings, what we in the trade would call a first water stone. Exceptional clarity. Exceptional presence. Perfect cut. The food and drink at Ocean Social matched the company in quality. I ate superbly. I drank with what I shall describe as disciplined enthusiasm. I was entirely, comprehensively, and given Captain Douglas and the woman on the train and the pandas of Chengdu, gratefully happy. Departure, like arrival, was handled with graceful efficiency. My bill was correct, a rare miracle in the modern hotel industry, which I note with the fervour of a man who has spent years reviewing itemised charges for laundry services he did not use and, on one memorable occasion in Geneva, a charge for the rental of the in-room mirror, a detail so audacious I keep the receipt framed above my desk as a monument to human ingenuity. The two young men who had welcomed me upon arrival were not present at my departure, and in their place stood a young woman of considerable poise and evident competence who processed my checkout with an efficiency and warmth entirely in keeping with every other human interaction I had enjoyed at this remarkable establishment. She smiled as though she meant it. She bade me farewell as though my departure was a matter of genuine regret. In matters of hospitality as in matters of gemstones, the effect is the point. And the effect was that I left feeling seen, and valued, and returned to myself, which is the rarest thing a hotel can offer and the only one that truly matters. I walked out into the Miami morning and stood for a moment in the light. I thought of Captain Douglas and the men whose names he carried every morning. I thought of young men in Miami bars in 1976 still quietly searching for their East. I thought of a train stopped in a field in Lombardy and a woman who boarded it from nowhere carrying a bird with no name and told me to take care of the best thing I owned and then disappeared at Varenna without explanation, and I thought that I have in fact been careful with it, and that she was right that it was the best thing, and that wherever she is I hope someone has been equally careful with whatever is the best thing she owns. I thought of the pandas of Chengdu, eating their bamboo with divine and unapologetic focus, requiring nothing from us but the basic decency of leaving them sufficient world in which to exist. I thought of a twenty-three-year-old Englishman on a Miami dockside with a briefcase full of ambition and a head full of mangoes, stumbling into a jeweller’s shop and finding something that would become, against all probability, the shape of his life. A life is not the thing one plans. It is the thing one accumulates, through the wrong turnings and the right ones, through the losses that stay and the finds that matter, through the trains that stop in fields for reasons that are never explained and the doors through which something extraordinary boards and the windows through which the light does something unreasonable to a field in Lombardy in 1989. It is assembled from moments of genuine presence. The balcony at half past eight. The pool in the Miami light. A pelican, focused and indifferent and entirely itself. A young woman who smiled at checkout and meant it. I have been paying attention. Not always. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough to have been on that train. Enough to have stood before those emeralds in 1976 and understood, in eleven motionless minutes, what my life was going to be. Enough, now, to know what a great hotel feels like from the inside, not merely the luxury of it, which is the easy part, but the humanity of it, which is the achievement. The Eden Roc Miami Beach is, in the fullest sense I can offer after seventy-three years of looking closely at rare and precious things, genuinely, lastingly, extraordinarily fine. Five stars. Without reservation, qualification, or hesitation. Go. Simply go. Tip the beach staff generously, have whatever Flavio recommends and listen to him describe it, let the spa take you wherever it takes you, and stand on your balcony in the morning sun for longer than you think you need to. Bring your stones. The ones you carry. This hotel is warm enough and generous enough to let you set them down for a while. You will know why when you are there. And you will know, standing on that balcony with the Atlantic before you and an excellent coffee in your hand, that a life, your life, with all its wrong turns and its stopped trains and its pelicans and its birds with no name, has been, on balance and without serious question, worth it.

A Dreamy Birthday Escape at The Savoy – A Hidden Gem in South Beach I stayed at The Savoy Hotel in Miami Beach at the end of May for my 53rd birthday, traveling solo from rainy, gray New York—and I truly couldn’t have asked for a more perfect experience. From the moment I walked into the elegant Art Deco lobby, I felt transported. The nostalgic charm was exactly what I needed: a peaceful, sun-drenched escape where I could walk straight onto the beach without even crossing a street. And that’s exactly what I got. I was warmly welcomed by Denzel at the front desk and Frederico, who kindly took my bag and helped me settle in, even though I arrived early and my room wasn’t quite ready. They showed me where I could change, handed me a glass of wine, and invited me to relax. I wandered through a lush corridor of palm trees and tropical foliage, passed the sparkling pool, and found myself just steps from the sand. It felt like a private paradise. By the time I returned, I discovered that the hotel had upgraded my room—and to my surprise, there was a bottle of wine and a handwritten note waiting for me. Such a thoughtful and personal touch. Throughout my stay, the staff continued to go above and beyond. Fernando on the beach greeted me each day with a smile and a joyful “Italian hello,” and Marco at the front desk truly made my trip unforgettable. Whether it was offering great nightlife tips, chatting with genuine warmth, or handing me a Band-Aid when I needed it—he made me feel seen, cared for, and completely safe. Marco is the kind of person who turns a hotel stay into a beautiful memory. The rooms are simple and stylish, honoring the hotel’s Art Deco roots, and the overall atmosphere is peaceful, unpretentious, and full of heart. The Savoy didn’t just give me a great place to stay—it gave me exactly what I needed: safety, sun, connection, and a sense of joy. I can’t wait to return.

Nice spot. Tiny rooms. Slow lifts. Crappy wifi. Pricey parking. Alright breakfast. Rooms don't cool down.

Review rating: 4.0

Clean and good value I stay the night in Miami to catch a connecting flight and this was by far on the best best places to stay for your money. Room was super clean, everything worked, nothing that needed repair. No cockroaches in the middle of the night. The other brand named hotels in the same area are not so good. We will be staying here from now on when we are passing thru.

Review rating: 5.0

A fabulous experience, a very well-located hotel, very close to PIER 5 and BAYSIDE…with renovated, very spacious rooms, a very comfortable bed, and a large bathroom. Breakfast was in the restaurant next to the hotel. Abundant and delicious buffet breakfast. The staff's demeanor was very approachable and pleasant. In particular, a shout-out to the receptionist, Almudena, who is Spanish, with whom we connected very well. She helped us at all times and made our stay wonderful. We will return and recommend it 100%.

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Absolutely great hotel. We were upgraded immediately upon arrival and the room was super large and had a great view from the 19th floor. The Atwell rooms only start on the 16th floor, so you always have a great view here. Breakfast and bar on the 24th floor are accordingly also great. The hotel is super connected to all possible public transport. And accordingly also easily reachable from the airport. I can warmly recommend it!

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Best kept secret in Miami. Whether you’re looking to rent, or stay for a long weekend, Sentral Wynwood is perfect. The rooms are beautiful, the amenities are like a 4-star hotel, and above all… the staff is so attentive, available, and they go above and beyond for anything you might need. For example, our TV was having a problem connecting to WiFi, and within 30 minutes, maintenance had it fixed. The room’s bath/shower is like a spa. The pool and social space on the roof is gorgeous. I will 100% be staying here again!

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