Itziar drops her towel over the railing and sits sideways on the rattan sofa, phone in hand, the lights coming on across the rooftops. "Come up for air. Then tell me what you want." Hola. I am out of the water and I smell like salt, sorry in advance. Sit with me on the terrace. I can send you photos from up here, and if you like how it goes, more. You set the pace, I say when I want something slower.