Prim and a little naughty: Ritz as it should be?

Leslie Oliver, Director of Sales at the Ritz-Carlton Palm Beach meets us in the marble lobby of the Four Seasons.

We say goodbye to Carolina. The bell boys gently place our bags in the back of the Ritz Escalade.

I sit shotgun. Leslie is behind the wheel. Five minutes later we pulled into the port cochere of a Grey Poupon colored resort with a red-tiled roof.

Leslie turns left and up a slight incline to the hotel. "The Ritz-Carlton was built in 1992. We just completed an $80,000,000 renovation of the public areas and guestrooms."

"Oh, good! You must have gotten rid of those old Ritz Chandeliers. It seems like every Ritz has those old ice princess. . ." Leslie cuts me off.

"We still have the chandeliers," laugh. "But you'll see that we've found creative solutions for some of them."

We walk past registration into an expansive living room set up, complete with over-sized fireplaces, arm chairs and stiff couches. A few of the chandeliers are covered in wine-ish, brownish drums. Leslie explains how a major fireplace and wall were knocked out to clear sight lines. Guests can now view the pool and ocean from registration.

I can't imagine walking through here in board shorts.

We move onto the meeting areas. They feel like a powdered wig at Versailles. 18th Century Spanish paintings, consisting mostly of portraits, abound.

"Back when Ritz-Carlton first started we had a full-time art procurement team in our New York City office. They spent untold millions collecting art from all over the world." We walk back into the hallway. Complicit with our unspoken feelings that the meeting rooms could do with a refurb, Leslie smiles and directs our attention to the floor coverings. "This is what we call our Chinese vase motif carpet."

We walk past the pool and outdoor areas. We tour guestrooms. Of note are bathtubs in the standard suites and the night-club inspired his and hers connecting presidentials. All rooms have views of the ocean.

We save the Fitness Center and Eau Spa for last. Leslie's face breaks into a mischievous grin as we enter. This is a different world. It's London flirtatious. Its that unmistakable UK melange of cherry-red nails, faux biker leather, and India ashram fashion. I pick up a coffee-table book featuring vintage photographs of odd shaped Victorian-clad bottoms.

I meet Adam, one of the spa attendants. He is wearing a black tee, gold chain, and slacks. I ask where he's from. He looks out of place, and way too macho.

"I'm from the the Jersey Shore."

We tour the change rooms, the steam room and sauna, and up a few stairs to the biggest hot tub I've ever seen. In the center of the tub is a rain storm courtesy of a giant shower head. Two over-sized rubber duckies perch on one edge. Bobble head dolls of English pop stars watch silently from a curio.

I want to drop 'em and jump in, bad.

But we still haven't seen the tranquility garden, or the treatment rooms, or the treatment suites, or, or, or . .

- - -

Leslie hugs us goodbye and hands us lunches in blue, insulated Ritz-Carlton totes.  Our limo from the Ritz-Carlton Key Biscayne awaits. The valet opens my door.

I turn to Leslie before getting in. "That was a bit cheeky taking us to the spa last. I can't remember anything else! I'll be back."

It's that good.