You know you're in trouble when they name a heatwave after a mythical beast.

Or, my summer vacation in Italy

I have news for anyone who thinks climate change isn’t real. Based on my trip to Italy in July, I can tell you it is very much real and, according to the Italians, is worthy of the name Cerberus-aka the mythical, three-headed dog in Dante’s Inferno.

We arrived in Venice just at the start of the heatwave. Coming from the West Coast of the United States, I am used to a dry heat, and immediately began “glowing” as soon as I stepped off the plane. I can do this, I chanted to myself on the water taxi as we speed towards the ancient city floating in the distance. I tried to focus on my daughter’s joy and excitement over being in the city she always wanted to visit.

The first time I was in Venice, I went in the early Spring and nearly froze to death. I was on a tour and disliked the city but this vacation was for my daughter, a high school graduation gift, and she was on a mission to see Venice.

When she was just little, she watched an episode of Little Einsteins and found out that Venice sinking. She has spent the past 15 years of her life worrying that it would sink before she got to see it. And so, Venice as our first stop.

This trip was different than the first time I was in Venice. Maybe it was because we were on own and I wasn’t at the mercy of tour guides but I feel in love with the city. Unfortunately, this time (in retribution for all the times I said Venice was overrated?) the city tried to kill me. Death in Venice indeed.

The Italians don’t really believe in air conditioning. They think drastic temperatures changes are unhealthy for you. So there was no respite from the heat. Our lovely Airbnb had some air conditioning but not of the ilk that this American was used to.

Each day, we would get up early, slather on sunscreen and head into the tepid, soupy air. We began sweating as we locked the door behind us. We would walk to St, Mark’s Square for coffee and a pastry and huddle under the bright yellow umbrella, and watch the waiters slowly melt in their black, polyester suits.

In a stroke of genius, I arranged for us to have an evening tour of the Doge’s Palace and St. Mark’s thinking it would be cooler. It was not. The heat was relentless. I struggled up and down four flights of stairs in blistering heat at the Doge’s Palace, thinking maybe the dungeon wasn’t really so bad since it was the only cool place. (I’m guessing the former prisoners, up to their necks in water and rats when the tides came in would have disagreed with me.) A group of women dropped out of the tour, on the brink of heat exhaustion. I pushed on until, as we sat in St. Mark’s and I was hit with an ocular migraine. Either God was smiting me for my lack of church attendance or the heat had finally got to me. Either way, we quietly exited the church.

Back in St. Mark’s Square, my daughter ate mounds of gelato and my husband and I tried to drown our sorrows in icy glasses of Aperol Spritzes. The waiters continued to melt before our eyes.

On our last day in Venice, we headed to the Peggy Guggenheim museum. The museum is housed in what was once her palazzo and, leave it to an American, the place had the best air conditioning in the city. I’m not a huge fan of modern art, but I thanked my lucky stars for that museum. Then we made the mistake of thinking we would walk back to our apartment instead of taking a water taxi.

I am more intolerant of heat than the average person and, by the time we got to the infamous Harry’s Bar for lunch, I was dizzy, red-faced, and sweating. Embarrassingly, I burst into tears when the waitress brought us the base of long staircase to take us to our table. She quickly moved us into the downstairs bar and brought me ice water as I, beyond embarrassed, tried not to succumb to heatstroke.

After eating a little, I rallied and slowly made my way back to our home, happy to know we would be leaving Venice, despite the fact that I had fallen in love with its architecture and canals this trip. The next stop was Florence and I had unrealistic hopes that it would be cooler. I should have known the next circle of hell was on the agenda and the hounds of hell were snapping at my heels when, upon my return to the room, I found out the train workers were on strike and we would have to find another way to Florence.