It was approximately 8 billion degrees in my room at the Flor de Lis pension hostal on St. Eloy street in the heart of old-town Seville.
I went downstairs at 3am to commiserate with the poor desk jockey, who also appeared to be sweltering, and begged for some AC or a longer cord for the sad, debilitated fan.
I could have the remote to the AC, he said, but it would cost me half again the price of the room. He wiped his brow and gave me a look that said, I feel your pain. Seeing that there were so few hours left in the night, I decided to just sweat it out. (haha)
(believe it or not, I did yoga in this room. Rawr!)