Our apartment in Bangalore.

I loved this place. Loved the mattresses on the floor––three squished together so you could roll around all night with your girlfriends, the water shutting off at odd times, the bucket in the bathroom serving its dual purpose of shower cleaner and puke-receptor, the strangers walking into the room where Rachael and I were sleeping to invite us outside for food, because the front door was cracked open and someone in our apartment complex was getting married. Personal space is a western phenomenon.