In Palestra

Acquiring a gym membership may not be a noteworthy subject for most. In fact, it can be downright pedestrian. For still others, the act of buying a gym membership can be filled with dread and trepidation. The commitment of it. The emotional strain of dragging one’s butt to a hell hole full of machines with too many mobile parts. The strain of the plastic membership card’s cash value – so much money spent to ‘stay healthy.’

For me, this act was non-negotiable. I was now facing nine months of living in the land of pasta and tiramisú – my true Achilles heel. This gym membership was insurance that my clothes would still fit after four weeks.

I walked in and asked for the list of prices. I had memorized the correct way of asking for them – the polite and courteous tone branded into the phrase I had chosen to use. But, to my horror, this phrase wouldn’t do it. Before I could utter a cry of surprise or think of how to respond, the suited man behind the counter had insisted he take me on a full tour of the facilities. Fear gripped me – I had never learned vocabulary about going to the gym. I was in hot water now. He continued to talk, to show me the spic-and-span weight room (sala pesi), the extensive and temperature-controlled cardio room (sala cardio – easy enough), and pointed the way to the luxurious change rooms that were decorated in an ultra-modern fashion all too reminiscent of Yuppie Yaletown pads found in Vancouver.

I just knew I would never be able to afford a membership here. The shiny Life Fitness machines stank of newness, and all the women on them looked like super models.

The kind gentleman (who was now speaking a bit more slowly now that I had asked him to) took me back to the front desk (which had a live orchid on it, I realized now), and told me some fantastic news: there was a half-price offer on for women. 13 months for half the price of a normal membership meant that it was just about the same price as a YMCA membership in Canada for the same length of time. I didn’t have to decide right then and there either! I was given a temporary card and was told that I could use all the facilities and attend as many classes as I wanted for a full seven days free of charge.

AND. I would be given a free consultation with a personal trainer.

I laughed. I could already see the gong-show that was going to be!! With my limited Italian, with my lingering fear of gyms… I knew it would be a tense and ridiculous appointment. But the appointment was made before I had time to argue: the next day at 11:00 am I would get my ass kicked Italian-Gymaster style.

As I fully predicted, my trainer turned out to be male. Knowing that I was, for all intents and purposes, Anglophone, he spoke slowly in Italian and I was happy to find that I could grasp nearly everything he was telling me. He asked me if I went to the gym in Canada. I lied and said I did. I had gone in the past, I suppose, but I wasn’t a regular by any stretch of the imagination. I wasn’t a total beginner, though, which was the root of the question, after all… (excuses, excuses…)

I warmed up on the treadmill, and then he showed me my first strengthening exercise. Facing the mirror, arms outstretched in front of me, it was time for squats. There was a new twist, though: “stick out your behind” he said to me in Italian. I laughed. A little too loudly. He gave me the most professional look he could muster. I complied. Three sets of twenty later, I felt my thighs for the first time in a long time.

The next exercise: a weight machine to strengthen the outside of my thighs. OK – I knew this was important for running. I had done many exercises to strengthen this part of my body when I was in physiotherapy for a bad knee. I was glad to see that my Italian Gymaster was showing me a new way of doing it… but it, like the previous exercise, was also quite… suggestive. I held my breath, trying not to giggle. Brava, brava… he said encouragingly. My face was contorted in concentration. Keep staring at the weights! Don’t laugh!

The third and final exercise. I lie on my back, and there’s a five kilogram weight on my abdomen. Lift and lower, lift and lower, lift and lower… your pelvis. Oh boy. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh… (I thought!) Brava, brava… (he kept saying!)

Trying to master my giggles, I mused at how strong the influence of Italian culture was to be permeating the gym. But, then again, maybe it’s not so amazing. Gyms everywhere reek of hormones… and pheromones… I had stumbled upon the Italian example of the same thing: more forward, more curious to know how old you are, if you have a boyfriend, if you’re available for pizza…

Then (thank god) it was off for more no-nonsense, a-sexual treadmill running. Thirty minutes later I was covered in sweat and feeling incredible. I got a gentle pinch on the arm when I left for the showers, my Gymaster telling me how bravissima I had been during my workout.

What could I do? I thanked him and scuttled out of the weight room feeling sillier than ever. Blonder than ever.

And certain that I would be taking out a gym membership after my trial week.

For the cultural experience, of course.