Sweet Sweat

I've been able to put aside the mind-fuck that is relocation twice since Sunday.

One: having Cajun food with my parents at a place called Crocs.

Two: Peddling on a stationary bike from the 1980's in a balmy gym with a red lit-up sign flashing "boxing" over the door outside.

Mike, the owner, is a New Yorker and a New Orleanean all in one. Sure the rafters shake when I hit the bag and we all have to share one shower, but that makes it all the sweeter.

Thank you Freret Street Gym.

The gym sits just on the border of where I'm not supposed to go. I went and got Gatorade from a convenience store on the "wrong side of the line" -- the owner of the store was a Mexican woman who asked me about my workout and called me sweetie.

Some kids said hi to me on the walk back. Mike was waiting for me with a concerned look.

Peddling my bike through the French Quarter on my way back, I was almost sideswiped by what looked like a well-fed gentleman in a sports car.