The scent envelops you the moment you arrive: clean, inviting, and oddly evocative. There’s the unmistakable trace of fresh paint, softened by spa-like essential oils, and something else… a whisper of spring blossoms, or maybe just the intoxicating promise of escape. Whatever it was, it coaxed a long, slow exhale from somewhere deep inside me. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been wound until that breath let go.

The drive from Boston had tested my patience with bumper-to-bumper traffic all the way down the coast. But the tension began to dissolve the moment I stepped inside Island House Newport, Rhode Island's newest boutique hotel. Built from the ground up and barely a month old, the place glows with that ineffable newness of crisp, curated, and full of fresh beginnings. It even smells new: think high-end stationery meets lavender spa towel.

I entered through the back entrance in all of its discreetness and charm, just steps from an actual parking lot with ample space (a luxury unto itself in Newport). There, waiting with a smile and a hug, was my dinner companion, who had arrived before me and took a seat on the patio. She was not staying but would dine with me before heading back to her home, which was a 15-minute drive away.

Up we went, the elevator gliding to the third floor. And when the doors opened, it felt like stepping into a coastal daydream. My grand suite looked airlifted from a Pottery Barn catalog: serene hues of sea glass and fog, watercolor sketches of sea life, and an ecru sofa that looked like it had never known a spill or wrinkle. The living area opened into a cozy dining nook, a space that suggested a long breakfast in my robe and a read of a novel devoured in one sitting.

A welcome bouquet of spring florals waited for me on the coffee table as if a cheerful, fragrant appreciation after hours on the road. Somehow, everything about this place felt personal, intentional, and gently indulgent.

There’s a kitchenette, but let’s not call it that. It’s a kitchen, full stop. Sleek appliances, a Smeg coffeemaker with just the right amount of retro chic, a Haden toaster so beautiful I took a photo of it, and a stainless-steel refrigerator that made my one at home look like a relic. Stocked with real dishware and gleaming cutlery, it whispered stay a while. And I listened. I walked to the market the next morning to pick up a few breakfast staples, just for the pleasure of brewing my own coffee and toasting artisanal bread in solitude.

Island House doesn’t have a restaurant or spa, but it doesn’t need them (they partner withTennis Hall of Fame Fitness Center). This isn’t the kind of place where you hole up. This is where you launch from. Step outside, turn left onto Memorial Boulevard, and you’re in the thick of it. This is Newport at its best.

On that first night, we wandered a short way to Pasta Beach. I’d dined at the Pasta Beach Rowes Wharf location in Boston and was curious to see how the Newport outpost compared.

The vibe? Bustling. Tables brimming, the bar a hum of laughter and clinking glasses. The noise level? High. Call it festive if you’re feeling generous. But the food? Worth shouting over. My chilled glass of Sangiovese eventually warmed to reveal notes of cherry and herb, just in time for the arrival of a tartufo pizza with mushrooms so earthy and rich it could’ve come straight from Naples. The tagliatelle Bolognese was artful and plentiful enough to share with my friend. We were each served a small plate with a little mountain of twisted perfection. We also shared a citrus-kissed Sicilia salad that danced on the palate. But the dessert stole the show: a pistachio ricotta cake so airy it seemed almost imagined.

Walking back to Island House under a quilt of stars, I was reminded again that everything here is new. My bed felt untouched, unslept-in, as though I were the first to be swaddled in its crisp sheets. The mattress struck that Goldilocks balance: not too firm, not too soft. Just right.

Saturday dawned soft and golden. This time, I turned right from the hotel entrance and wandered down to Newport’s famous Cliff Walk. Past Salve Regina University and onto the path where the paved walkway becomes a rugged dance over sea-blown rocks. When the sky started to spit rain, I doubled back and ducked into The Breakers, the Vanderbilt family’s not-so-humble summer “cottage.”

Built in the 1890s, the mansion is a masterclass in Gilded Age grandeur. Architect Richard Morris Hunt borrowed heavily from Italian Renaissance palaces, and it shows in its grand staircases, marble halls, and a music room straight out of a dream. In fact, it doubled as a filming location for the HBO Max series The Gilded Age, and you can see why: there are hints of the Paris Opera House in the detailing, and ghosts of galas past in every gilded cornice.

After the mansion, Newport pulled me further in with its quiet corners and cinematic charm. I wandered, sipped, lingered. Not once did I need my car.

Back at Island House, I realized what makes this place special. It’s not the shimmer of new things or the convenience of location (though both are undeniable). It’s how thoughtful everything feels. This isn’t a hotel that overwhelms. It doesn’t try too hard. It just lets Newport be Newport and offers you the best place to watch it all unfold.

I heard Taylor Swift is expanding her estate in the area, and honestly? I get it.

Charlene Peters is a travel writer and author of "Travel Makes Me Hungry."