I am so hungover when I board the Arlecchino that its myriad charms are, at first, as lost on me as an idiom in translation. We are at Rome Termini, and this train has been chartered to whisk us – several dozen strangers and me – to Perugia in celebration of that city’s grande dame, the legendary Sina Brufani hotel, and its 140th birthday.

Already a casualty of the festivities on account of too many Negronis the previous night, I find myself a seat upholstered in emerald green velvet, sink into it with my sunglasses on, and let my head rest against the window. We pull out of the station, and for an hour or so, I pass in and out of bleary, slightly nauseous sleep.