It’s 18:18 and Kim and Aggie are speaking rapid Spanish as a browbeaten man looks on his stove, crusted in grime.

The mopeds are coming to life after a soporific afternoon that made the intersections ghostly.

The air is hot, hotter than the 30*C it is truly.

20 kilometres out of Barcelona, but only a promised 15 minute drive from the university, the sea is sorely missed.

The hotel exudes that strange quality: a renovated textile factory it is post-modern in the extreme.

Yet for all its abstract paintings, chrome and polished wood it lacks heart.

Yes, I could have eaten the absurdly wonderful chilli calamari and fragrant rice off the skirting board, but it is not homely.

The two German men supping beers in the lobby are the only sign of life, while the youthful gaggle congregating around the flower-pots in the square outside bear expressions as bored as my room is beige.

But all is not lost: free WiFi, AC and endless trips to Barcelona city beckon – not to mention some serious coffee at last.

More to come, anon.