My phone vibrates—Marina. “Marina, hola! You’ve caught me ensconced in Maiasmok, channelling my inner 19th-century intellectual with tragicomic flair. Have you escaped the luminous languor of Lisboa yet, or are you still flirting with saudade* over pastéis de nata? “Elena, cariño, you sound like Turgenev’s lost heroine. Is it as cold as your photos look, or…