Last Monday I drive back home after a week on holiday south of Rome. I set off at six - an ungodly hour - so as to miss the morning traffic into the city, and 'cos I have stuff I want to do in the afternoon and the 700km drive is a long one.

It is already late. On the Pontina (the main artery that links southern beaches and towns to Rome) traffic is heavy and already slow. Long lines of vehicles all heading to an ancient place called the Eternal City. A open van has a clump of palm trees in the back. They make me think of Galilee. The suffering of adults and children is made never-ending by the crimes we perpetuate against one another. An absurd original sin.

On the Raccordo, Rome's ringroad, I stop for breakfast and order a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, which in Rome is called cornetto and in Milan brioche. I've never worked out where it stops being one to become the other.

Everything is in flux. Everything is in continual change. The Raccordo keeps adding tarmac and lanes and crosses countryside once used as sheep pastures and backdrops to spaghetti westerns. On the other side of the capital, I join the A1, known as the Autostrada del Sole (the motorway of the sun - which unites north, centre and south). Motorways, once driven the first time, become so boring, so bland. I stop for cans of Red Bull a couple of times. The caffeine turbocharge drives jagged corners through my nervous system.

At Florence the traffic stops, moving. Standstill, then first and second gear. Repeat. Outside the light is brilliant bright. There has been no respite from a month-long heatwave. The air-conditioning in my C3 has turned faulty. It no longer works when the car slows down and stops. Malfunctioning filters affected by speed. A metaphor maybe?

There's this novel set in Pakistan called "Moth smoke" which uses air-conditioning to develop one of the best descriptions of the dividing lines between poverty and wealth I've ever read. There is Henry Miller's iconic "Air-conditioned nightmare". There was this short story (from an 80s pulp collection of women's erotica) set during a heatwave in New York which was really sexy, sweaty and sweet.

Air-conditioning defining our collective actions, our ability to function, to maintain movement.

Up in the Appenines, between Florence and Bologna, the traffic stops again. Not moving, people step out of cars. The sun merciless among the mountains. On the radio, news of the scores of children dead in Lebanon, in Afghanistan, in Iraq. In the boot of my car is an old punk record collection, finally out of storage after 10 years. There was a video by Discharge of bombs falling in black&white and Cal shouting why, why, why. The radio brings news of 20 holidaymakers killed in traffic accidents on Italian roads the previous day. Holidays in the sun. Are nationalities a need or a necessity?

I stop for petrol a second time. It costs over 1.4 euros a litre. A latino petrol attendant reminds me of a few days once spent in Tela, Honduras, back in the early 90s. Tela was a sleepy town set in the centre of a beautiful bay. After weeks of travelling trough Central America with no film or video media, I was hungry for the cable TV found in the hotel room. But frequent powercuts meant missing chucks of movies, removing meaning. They meant lying back on the bed back in the humid heat. At the weekend, crowds descended to the beach, just like in Italy. The difference was they looked so much poorer. No new beachwear or designer towels, only grubby T-shirts and underwear. During a walk along the secluded side of the bay I stopped in what looked like a hotel and asked the waiter for a drink, only to discover it was a private house. The owners were friendly and polite. They told me stories of families that made Honduras, and their life in Miami. Has petrol really peaked?

Nine hours later I reach Pavia. I drive across the roofed bridge Albert Einstein enjoyed crossing when he lived here. Below it the waters of the Ticino are at a record low. The river itself is at risk. I reach our home in the countryside. I step out of the car and the heat hits me like a schoolyard bullyboy. There are wasps everywhere, flying crazed with the attitude of drunken hooligans. A whole bunch have made their home on our front door. Inside, I find an infestation of little black flying bettles. Late into night, after a losing shoe battle with the paratrooper bugs, I fall asleep with the air-conditioning on.

The following morning, as I drive to work the weather breaks and a tropical-like rainstorm forces me to pull over. To stop.