Leaving my adopted home in June after a month of post-exams holidays , I was glad that I had chosen a two-year Master’s degree. Sure, the student life is an easy one, but it was more than just that. I had made so many new friends and acquaintances, I had learned so much, and my Italian had improved ten-fold (although my housemates may disagree, sick of my making them repeat everything twice). I was glad to have the opportunity to broaden that experience, now that Bologna had become my second home I was ready to move on from being a tourist in her midst. And in June she is such a beautiful place to call home.

Bologna transforms into another creature in summer. In April she sheds her spring coat as the poplars of hidden courtyards release pollen into the air in a snowstorm of little fluffballs, as impossible to catch in your hands as their unexpected beauty is to put into words. In May comes blooming jasmine with its unusual smell of both oncoming summers and Chinese food, as the heat creeps up on you threateningly in a house without the luxury of air conditioning.

Piazza Verdi, the centre of Bolo’s extracurricular activities

Every piazza turns into an outdoor cinema, every inch of park a music festival or marketplace, an ecological festival, a political festival, and no where are any of them effectively advertised, so each festival comes as a surprise. Those who have lived in Bologna before become indispensable fonts of local knowledge. Outdoor music at the Cavaticcio, cinema in Piazza Maggiore, the usual concerts in Làbas make the city in June a cultural gem. One day after falling asleep in the park, I woke up to find myself in the middle of an impromptu circus, as Bologna’s amateur clowns and acrobats constructed a tightrope circle all around me. A friend warned me I would never be seen again and for thirty seconds I fantasied about dropping all this International Relations nonsense for life as a travelling clown. Not a million miles away from a political career I supposed.

June was for falling in love with Bologna all over again. My arrival in September, the onset of winter in November, and now June were exhibitions of three different cities all in the same packaging of porticoes and vermilion architecture.

The exams this time around had a familiarity to them (especially considering I had to resit one of them), but I was determined not to give in to the flexibility of the Italian examination system which lets you sit exams in whatever month you like. I had resolved to get all my exams done and dusted by June to give me time to take in Bologna’s summer before I fled the heat of July and August. And some heat it was, after weeks in the mid 30s and final acceptance that there was no escape from constant sweatiness, us northern Europeans danced through a rare monsoon rain one night laughing like demented idiots as the rest of our group ran from shade to shelter.

Midnight at the oasis

A clawing feeling of FOMO had me worried two months in Dublin would be too long, especially as all of my beautiful Italy-based friends were spending their holidays at equally beautiful Italian seaside towns, some travelling the Balkans while others took in the Mediterranean sun on further shores. I needn’t have worried, it’s now mid-August and I have barely stood still while the clock keeps ticking towards another academic year. Weeks on the boat on the Shannon in rain and shine as well as countless nights in cosy snugs in old Dublin pubs have kept me more than busy. Lock-ins in the country and music sessions in the closest of friends’ houses are making the idea of leaving for another year as difficult as possible, never mind the prospect of the upcoming Fleadh Cheoil down in Ennis.

Not quite Amalfi, but it’s family and it’s home.

In the end there’s just no comparing life between countries as different as Ireland and Italy, even if you’re reminded of their uncanny similarities on a weekly basis. I complain as much about Italy’s bureaucratic holdups as much as I sing paeans to its unrivalled food culture (I’m twitching for lack of good coffee). Likewise I despair about Ireland’s political culture as much as I cherish its sick sense of humour over creamy pints.

This month, news from Bologna started to creep back into my peripheral vision, that our favourite Wednesday stomping ground was shut down by riot police. Làbas is a kind of left-wing commune, established five years ago by activists in an abandoned military barracks, and they had transformed it into a centre providing a homeless shelter, language lessons for migrants, organic markets and midweek concerts. As I began to get sucked back into the current affairs of my adopted hometown, emails came through from the University, and the reality of classes and thesis research returned to relevance. It was time to get back into battle.