I dream of Rome. I have dreamt of Rome every night (and day) for decades. I lived in Rome in the 1970s when I was a teenager, old enough to have the run of the city, breaking into ancient ruins, “borrowing” Vespas and learning to appreciate the opposite sex. When we returned to Canada, on one of the last voyages of the Italian liner Cristoforo Colombo, I seriously considered jumping ship in Naples. I should have. I remember standing on the aft deck, watching Vesuvius fade into distance. I can’t remember being so miserable.

I moved back to Rome two weeks ago, after almost a decade in Toronto and before that more years than I care to count in London and New York. My wife Karen is working at one of the three United Nations food agencies in Rome; I am The Globe and Mail’s new European business correspondent. I am in my late 40s, too old to get away with lifting coins out of the Trevi Fountain.

It hasn’t taken long for me long to realize that the Rome I live in now is a vastly different place from the Rome and Italy of my youth. Italy in general and Rome in particular are familiar, yet alien, like an old friend you haven’t seen since high school. In Rome’s case, the city looks the same – the glorious ruins of the Palatine Hill, 17th century palazzos dripping with wisteria, the rain pouring through the oculus of the Pantheon, the ancient world's most perfectly preserved building  – but the spirit is different.

An artist acquaintance of mine who has lived in Rome for decades explained the difference between Italy then and Italy now: “In the 1970s, Italy was the best of the Third World Countries. Now it’s the worst of the First World countries.”

By that he meant you could forgive the sins of old Italy, because the country was friendly and cheap. Now it’s rude and expensive, yet all the old problems remain. The streets are dirty, the noise and traffic are appalling, the bureaucracy drives you crazy and corruption is rampant. At times, you can be forgiven for thinking the place exists to rip you off. I’ll reserve final judgment for a while, but my friend has a point.

We landed at Leonardo Da Vinci airport, cleared immigration and customs with no problem and looked for a taxi. We were, of course, swamped by helpful men with cars. The price? “For you, ninety-five euros.” “Grazie, no.” The set price is roughly half that. Having lived here once, I know some (but not all) of the tricks. Pity the tourist who doesn’t.

Since then, our lives have been a fatiguing string of meetings and attempted meetings with corporate and government bureaucrats for residency permits, bank accounts, professional accreditations and the like. What should take an hour or a day – arranging a debit card, for instance – can take weeks. The paperwork for the simplest thing is horrendous. Then you storm out of the building and instantly step into a pile of dog poop. It’s everywhere. Or narrowly escape with your life when a Vespa driven at high speed by someone who is simultaneously smoking, talking on his cell phone and shifting gears runs a red light. On Friday, I saw a horse-drawn carriage run a red light on one of the busiest streets in the city. The horse came within centimetres of becoming a dog food candidate.

But yet....But yet the city is full of beauty, wonderful surprises and bewildering contradictions. A year or so ago, a ban was put on smoking in public places. Good luck, I thought – it’s a point of pride in Italy to ignore laws. In most countries where the smoking ban is put in place, smoking rates drop. Not in Italy. The opposite has happened. Yet, incredibly, the smoking ban is generally well respected; I have been to only one restaurant where it wasn’t. How do you explain that?

Inside our daughters’ school – a former convent near the Tiber River -- there is a bar. It’s across from the principal’s office. Why? “Because the teachers like to drink,” the janitor said, obviously assuming I was a moron. At first Karen and I were shocked. Now we wonder why every school doesn’t have one. The teachers have their morning caffe or cappuccino and a cornetto (similar to a croissant). It’s a lovely, civilized way to start the day. If the teachers and parents are happy, so are the children. Alcohol is available too, but we’re told that tippling is strictly an after-hours activity.

In the corporate world, people no longer go home for a siesta and family lunch every day, but nor do they eat at their desks. Instead, offices empty out and local restaurants do a brisk business as workers take their allotted lunch hour to sit down and eat a proper meal, served on proper china. When you go for a coffee, you don’t run to Starbucks and return five minutes later to your desk to gulp down 12 ounces of watery brown slop in a paper cup. Going for a coffee here means putting on your jacket, walking the local caffe, sipping something approaching pure, delicious caffeine from a small china cup and having a conversation for 15 minutes about soccer, politics, fashion and food.

But I worry some of these ever so civilized traditions will disappear, are disappearing. Fast-food joints are springing up. Restaurants are catering to mass tourism. Italians are becoming obsessed with money like never before as prices soar and American-style commercialism takes over. Italian homes are stuffed with 30-year-old children who can't afford to leave mamma and pappa. Cars are getting bigger and SUVs are clogging streets designed for chariots. Television is dominated by Rupert Murdoch’s Sky channels and their steady flow of commercials for goodies the average Italian can’t afford and doesn’t need. The BlackBerry, unheard of two years ago, is selling briskly. Families can’t afford to go out for dinner.

Italy seems far less laid back than it used to be. When I return to Canada in a few years, I wonder whether I’ll miss Italy as much as I did when I waved goodbye from the ship.