In a foreign country, with a tour group full of people you don’t know, sometimes the best thing you can do is go to the gym.
I need to pause for a disclaimer: If I am a rat of any kind, it is not a gym rat. I’m a road rat, a trail rat, a barre rat – but I don’t like the machines, the musk, the towels, the TVs or any of the complimentary ambience that comes along with a trip to the gym. I can’t stand the sound of the treadmill, the way my face looks in the mirror while I run or the useless, tiny cups of water.