I grew up, in part, on the edge of a small village in Spain. My teenage years were leisurely and sun-dappled, our dinners alfresco, our conversations multi-lingual. We moved as a small pack of foreign kids – Dutch, English, French, Spanish, Italian – reconvening every summer to flirt, swim, sunbathe, and dance in utterly uncool small-town discos, coming-of-age to the sounds of cicadas, the taste of paella and the sweet smell of coconut suntan oil. Because of this, perhaps, Call Me By Your Name was overwhelmingly evocative and I could not look away from the screen.