It often strikes me that for the nation of ‘La Dolce Vita’, the ‘bel far niente’ (the beauty of doing nothing) and other wonderful clichés, Italy has this strange way of making life about as difficult as possible for you, before tempting you back to her just as you are about to give in.

It’s Monday morning on Via Irnerio. You have a folder of forms, none of which lead anywhere of real use, but all of which must be filled out if you want anything done in some vague future. You have just found out that you should have supplied all of your details to the Office of General Bureaucratic Nonsense with four passport photos (no smiles, signed on the back), and a letter of motivation, all of 6 months ago, and that because you had failed to do this you are to be bastinadoed with another half a foot of paperwork from the Ministry for Wasted Time. Of course none of this was made clear in the first place, but neither your Italian friends nor the infuriatingly blasée Bolognese woman in the office seem to understand how insane it is to require a student to provide his tax code, proof of address, bank details and passport for a bus pass or some other useless document.

The queues are long, the office hours span arbitrary times of 9.00-11.15 on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays, 14:00-15:00 Wednesdays and Thursdays (but check the 1990s-style website as these change depending on how urgently you need to solve your particular crisis), and people tend not to extend any sort of understanding to you for being a foreigner with little knowledge of the Italian Tax Code or Napoleonic Law. Your clothes are now dripping with sweat and you have lost any semblance of the suave Italian gigolo you thought you were that morning as you stepped out under Bologna’s porticoes.

And then, just as your bag bursts from its own weight, along with your mind, Italy finds a way to tell you she was only joking. That she still loves you after all she has put you through. You sit down at the nondescript bar with the waitress you noticed when you had your first coffee there weeks ago, you catch her eye and order an Aperol Spritz. You take a moment to catch your breath and take a deep sip, coupled with a sigh. The sounds of tiny espresso cups on tiny saucers, of prosecco bottles celebrating nothing but midday, of the Piazza and its lovers and stoners, return to you in a rush of pure calm.

It’s the sound of the Italy you first took in the moment you arrived in this town of brick and brioche. It’s the sound of the Italy you signed up for. It’s the sound of the Italy that never changes, and can be enjoyed day after day no matter what she tries to put it your way.