When some years ago Italy seemed a world with no end, with some easy heat and some salty breeze, it didn’t include the agony in 38°C degrees at 4.00pm. As it didn’t include melting asphalt, dizziness and ringing in the ears. And a sort of humour in all this.
This is the fourth summer in a row. Wrapping your head in wet towels, imitating freshness with wet sheets. And when you must leave the house, remembering your L’Artisan Mûre et Musc in the fridge and pretending it’s not hot at all.