my thing.

All of the interns have a thing. The thing that keeps us sane, allows us to feel comfortable, a touch of home. The admin intern must have yogurt. The investigations intern gets ice cream at least twice a day. An aftercare intern does yoga on the roof. Another goes to bookstores to sit and journal. Me? I run.

Since I moved into my new flat, I no longer have access to the little treadmill room I used to enjoy. I tried to adjust by working out with tae-bo tapes and P90X, but it's just not the same mind-clearing nirvana when Billy Blanks is yelling at you to "turbo charge it." So I made the decision, for my last month, to join Gold's Gym. That's right, there is a Gold's Gym.

And it is a little piece of heaven, an auto-rickshaw ride away.

I doorman opens the doors for me (I know I've turned at the correct building once I pass the goats tied to the tree and the man selling potatoes off a tarp. Have a mentioned the contrasts?). In the locker room, an attendant says, "chilled lemon water, laurakatedenny?" She gives me a hand towel. She fills my water bottle. I love her. I head to the cardio studio. Another doorman opens the door for me. Head to a treadmill (with a screen!) and a ripped trainer sets it on 10 minutes at a leisurely stroll (which I immediately change to 45 or 50 minutes at a pretty hard pace). I watch Bollywood music videos, and techno versions of all my favorite songs blast through the speakers. Today, a techno remix of country roads / you are my sunshine was playing. It was brilliant. When I head back to the locker room, I get another offer for "chilled lemon water laurakatedenny?" and a big warm towel and a hot, water pressure-y shower. Aaaaah.

And then I walk back outside. Horns are BLARING, goats are making goat noises, rickshaw drivers are yelling their destinations, men are doing electric work and sparks are flying, sometimes it's monsooning. That's why I need my thing.

In other news, always more excitement at the office: 2 girls rescued last week, the court denied custody to a dummy parent (a person paid by the brothel owner or pimp to try to get the girls back), we are doing some exciting work with the Department of State's TIPS report, and another new intern came this week. Love love love love it.

And finally, if you read this far: This sign is on the building next door to my apartment. I think it speaks for itself.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo