I’m glad I’m not touring Italy this summer. Like Lancelot in his serenade to Guinevere, I’ve loved Italy in the springtime, summer, winter and fall, but unlike Lance, I could leave her in summer. Italy is my favorite country of them all. I love every piece of piazza in this land of gorgeous glistening grapevines.

However, if we’re talking high season, record-breaking heat and August crowds—I’ll make an exception. I’ve been to Il Bel Pasae (the beautiful country) many times and was tempted to return this summer. But then, I remembered the trip of 2003. During August 2003, the International Herald Tribune reported the hottest period on record for all of Europe—and I was there. It was amazing. For 12 consecutive days, I shook my head while looking at front-page weather charts: flaming red spikes shooting off the pages of La Gazetta and The Roma Posta.

There were headlines everywhere reporting numbers hitting 45 degress Celsious (117 degrees Fahrenheit). The Italians had never seen anything like this before. Daytime temperatures in Rome, Riomaggiore and Rivoli did not drop at night. When steam rose from Pisa’s pavement at 1 am, I realized there was not going to be any buona in the notte. At this point, I begin thinking about a lot of things that weren’t on my original agenda.

First, the quest for a hotel room with air conditioning. The thought of trying to get a pensione with a functioning air conditioner was naïve. You typically don’t need much AC when traveling through Europe, but these were rare times.

Of course there was a shortage of AC’s that summer, so dozens of self-proclaimed heat stroke candidates stormed hardware stores, plotting to seize what was left of any stocked cooling appliances before the hoarders got there. It was unbelievable. Pushing, punching, probing— whatever it took to grab the highly coveted “last air conditioner.”

I remember standing across the street from Electronic Mart in Rome, watching the department store’s emergency shipments of fans and cooling units being unloaded from vans. Before delivery drivers could get the new arrivals safe inside, five hoodlums lunged from a mid day lunch crowd, snatched several unopened boxes of AC’s sitting on the side walk, and ran, unstoppable by the Policia. The black market for crack was minor league compared to what someone could make on underground Maytags.

In Sorrento, I dreamed of sitting in a breeze with a book at an outdoor café. Instead, I put on an oversized T-shirt, retreated to the lower level of my four star hotel, and sat on a hard marble floor. This was the only shot I had at getting anything close to cool. While anemic air conditioning in museums, hotels and shops created challenges, the toughest scenarios were riding trains from Umbrian hillside towns to connecting city centers. Think about it.

You’re confined in large metal boxes absorbing sun. The only logical thing I could do was pour bottles of Evian over my head to keep cool. Really. I thought nothing of pouring pricey bottles of H2O over my hair and face, and I wasn’t alone. Dozens of othercommuters doused themselves as well, not seeming to care about their Acqua Panna or Pellegrino driping down what I imagined might be Armani, Gucci and Dolce & Gabbana duds.

In addition to handling summertime heat, you’re wading through endless streams of other humans on holiday. Tutto no good-o. You go there aching to see the Uffizi, maestros, vecchios, and frescoes. The David, doges, dens and duomos.You go there to see coral-pink sunsets back-lighting silhouettes of red tiled Florence rooftops. You go there to see all that and wham —you get 48 tour buses lined up from 23 countries. There are hundreds of guides shaking flags from every continent, high overhead on a staff, like Bo Peep. Worlds collide. Imaginary boundaries are crossed. Dazed, hot and spent, it’s not uncommon for tousled turistica to miss the fact that for blocks, they followed a Polish translator instead of the French historian assigned to them. Sacre bleu.

Many major monuments under go massive renovation during peak season in Italy. So, forget about capturing the award winning shot you were hoping to frame on your recently purchased high tech digital i camera. There will be a sea of scaffolding as far as the eye can see, blocking the view of the photo you traveled 7,000 miles to document.

I know, I know — I said I am Italy’s biggest admirer. And I am. Pergolas. Gondolas. Espresso. Risotto. Vivaldi. Da Vinci. Valentino. Bravado. Mostly, it’s about The Gusto — Being alive. Enjoying life. The bizarreness of high heat and head count creates a need for constant do-overs and deep breathing. During my August visit, anything that could melt did, including the interior molding on my rental car and all gelato options.

Brownouts, knockouts, timeouts, and turnabouts wear you down. Between the oozing, fainting, perspiring, jostling, neck craning and volatile AC underground, I’ve decided not to visit Italy this summer. But fear not, Italia. I’m fighting for my aisle seat on a confirmed October flight to Orvieto. It won’t be long before I see your vineyards streaked in autumn sunlight, and catch your Chianti in a winter fire’s glow.