It was good to arrive in Milano, an old and contemporary place; an elegant, polyglot lady. A little less cute and a little more sleek than the other Italian towns.

The heat continued to beat down, and mosquitoes from the canal spoiled a round of drinks and snacks with some new friends. The first evening there was all about the food.

A front passed through Recco during dinner one evening. Coming out of the restaurant, everything was peachy sepia.

In Pieve Ligure, I envied those for whom this relaxed atmosphere is a norm.

Along the rocky coast, there are so many pathways and roads stacked almost directly on top of one another, it seemed unnecessary. Over the years, I’m sure they each served their purpose, and the traffic along the larger roads increased to points beyond their original intend. The smaller walkways, which in many cases empty directly onto the main roads, are now unsafe because of blind turns and the speed of modern vehicles. Yet there didn’t seem to be many dead ends. Perhaps disused gates and some ruins here and there, but at no point is it required to stop and turn around.

In Pieve Ligure, at a villa rented from a tech high-flyer, the concerns were for health and laundry, and I looked for date palms to photograph for a commission.

At a roadway hotel near Lake Garda, ornamentation overflowed and statues of dogs sat in the corners and outdoors in the sun. The place had nothing immediately around it except fields of grapes and a pool. Closeup, the ornaments and dogs and classic- or Eastern-inspired objects come from different times and décor sensibilities, but, taken as a group, cohered into a certain feeling that lands slightly short of comfort—though I was so exhausted from the heat, it hardly mattered.

These dog statues are part of a rare, valuable collection, warned a placard in the room. If you damage one, you will be billed an amount dependent on the dog in question.

And on a day trip to Verona, it was clear to me that there was a city filled with charming details somewhere beneath the disorienting heat. A tourist passed out in the street just ahead of us. Maybe one day I’ll return in better weather, and with more time to spend.

Earlier this month, at an ancient hilltop church not far from Verona, I attended a wedding. Jet lagged and wearing a wool suit on a blazing-hot day, my lens mysteriously refused to focus while inside. On a terrace overlooking the surrounding countryside, wedding-guest couples and families posed for photos, while locals and other visitors to the town looked on, sipping their spritzes. I didn’t take any photos of the sweeping views, but in the hazy distance was Lake Garda.

Plants behind the windows, separated from summer dusk for the best and on expired film

The air quality is so good before the summer makes it into something to be warned about, when it holds heat, pollution, and humidity over our heads, hanging around for days sometimes, before continuing on out to sea. During those times, the atmosphere’s pressure feels like the massive weight it really is. I can’t think straight in humidity; it takes up too much mental bandwidth.

After the summer is good, too. The departure of the those awful, heavy days leaves a light-feeling autumn behind, a good sort of void. And while, as the days get shorter and the temperatures begin to dip, some brace for seasonal melancholy, I think more clearly, and selfishly enjoy the transition.

Clutter

I used to walk this street in Williamsburg almost daily, on my way to a job that, for the better, I no longer have. I don’t think this clutter was here back then, but the light of this sunny spring day made it appealing, throwing long, sharp shadows. Only in Williamsburg could this plastic Jersey barrier, sitting mysteriously useless on the sidewalk next to a Nissan, collect stickers like a pier collects barnacles.