It was a stunning tableau, a palette of reds and pinks swirling in improbable patterns across a creamy canvas.

A piece of art? A sunset? A cooling dollop of gelato?

No.

I am referring to the way my back looked when I checked it in the mirror yesterday.

The temperatures in Italy have been well into the high nineties, topping 100 degrees at least half the time, and the skies have been cloudless blue glories. As such, for most of our trevails around hilly country towns and the streets of Rome and Florence, I've had to wear tank tops -- tank tops that produce drastically different tan lines.

Until Munich, I hadn't worn sunscreen on anything but my face, and had skated through without any itchy red accidents. The last day there, lounging in the Englische Gardens, I got a bit of a burn to warn me against being cocky, but it didn't really work. Though I wore sunscreen more often after that, I still managed to get enough color to look tarty in anything that doesn't completely cover my shoulders.

I looked fabulously trashy yesterday, in particular. My spaghetti-strapped tank showed off the faded Y-back burn I sustained before I left, the new one I got in a slightly different position, the V-neck burn that appeared in Munich, the uneven burn on my lower arms and biceps, and some other weird strap mark I don't fully understand.

And, in a blessedly ugly development, during my morning sunscreen ritual I missed a rather large spot on my lower upper back (yes, that spot exists) that now cuts a lips-shaped crimson swath through the pale. I am a festival of scorched skin in a spectrum of hues.

Italy is hot. And now, so am I.

In an hour or so, I am off to catch a train to the airport, where I'll hop a flight to Heathrow and thereby end the European portion of my vacation. I can't say enough wonderful things about it -- the two weeks alone, the idyllic week in the villa -- but I'm really looking forward to seeing my father. Plus, I am bringing him two really nice bottles of wine, and that's always a beautiful thing, although how I'm getting on the train to Fiumicino with two suitcases, a small duffel, and a two-bottle carrying case is something of a mystery at this point.

The weather appears to be substantially cooler in England than here, which isn't surprising, although I didn't pack particularly intelligently for either climate. I expected something moderate all around. But I am eager to be in a place where I don't start the perspiration process the exact second I step outside. Sweating is fine, but when it's happening all day, every day, you start to feel like there's a layer of perma-grime coating your body.

Yep, I said it before, and it bears repeating: Italy is hot, and clearly, so am I.

Someone got here by searching for: Rowan Atkinson doesn't like broccoli Reading: Maps, mostly Staring at: The Colosseum. Listening to: Robbie Williams singing some predictably sensitive ballad about how she is the one and he knows it, and love is special, and she is the only one who is helping him hang on during these trying times. It doesn't quite work for him, given what a man-whore he supposedly is. So how about an actual update on what you've been doing for three weeks? I'm saving that for a time when I can properly sit down and think about it. And it won't really be interesting to anyone but me, but I'll likely end up posting long recaps anyway. Apologies in advance.