Walking at a steady clip down Juncal street on a humid Saturday morning, I was reminded of two of Buenos Aires' constants: exceedingly attractive women and dog shit. The former fills every sidewalk in every direction. So does the latter. Not that I'm comparing canine excrement with beautiful women; it's just that one is painful to come in direct contact with and the other has no regard for my shoes or my wardrobe.
I was on my way to sign up for a temporary membership at a local gym. Since BA was going to be my home for the next five weeks and it's ubiquitous steak and pasta would inevitably find a home on my plate as well, my body needed a fighting chance. So with athletic zeal, I continued to wander through the Recoleta neighborhood in the direction of my chosen gym, trying to dodge the small brown piles in front of me which, in some spots, was a workout in itself.
Megatlon is by far the Rolex of BA's gyms. With several locations scattered around the city, Megatlon's branches most closely resemble American-style clubs more so than any of the other places I checked out. For the price of maybe a week or two at Bally's, I got unlimited usage for a month at Megatlon's Barrio Norte branch. Five floors house a bevy of exercise machines, bikes, treadmills, a spinning room, a hair salon and a pool. It was the pool which initially attracted me to this particular locale as I had finally - and only recently - gained the ability to lap old women swimming in the lanes next to me.
At the gym's main counter and after employing oh so many words, I was able to finagle a membership from the slightly exasperated attendant. My swimming trunks in a bag with me, I was prepared to begin using my newly acquired membership immediately and, with an authoritative wave from the attendant, I dove headfirst into the locker rooms on the 4th floor.
At first sight of the locker-filled room, I was a little underwhelmed. Scuzzy may be too strong a word but so is antiseptic. It was, however, a men's locker room and I suppose rust-free lockers and a less dirty floor was just too much to ask for. I got changed and took my bag of clothes to a couple of guys standing behind the wooden counter at the bag check. I was clearly ready to swim although the young guy and his older counterpart manning that counter quickly countered my eagerness. Together, the two had a conversation as to what I should be doing in light of my aquatic intentions. They then relayed them to me. The particular chapter in high school Spanish class dealing with how to join a gym and conduct gym activities must have been ripped out of my textbook so, as usual, I stood there. In a foreign land and unequipped with a foreign tongue, I've often found, you can only resemble a politely smiling statue for only so long. Eventually, something has to transpire and what did was the duo continuing to talk to each other while pointing all over the locker room.
I was able to decipher a little. Looking down at my bare feet, they said I needed flip-flops. I didn´t have any so they sold me a flimsy pair of Megatlon standard issues. Next, they said I needed to wear a skullcap. I obviously didn't have one of those, so they rented me one. Ditto for a towel. All the rest was static. When they stopped talking, I turned and walked in the direction they pointed to last, hesitating every bit of the way.
After circling the locker room at least twice, an English voice cried out through the wilderness.
¨Do you need some help?¨
When Juan, a young and affable Argentinian, explained what the counter top duo had meant, I was puzzled. How could taking a dip be so complicated?
Apparently, I was to take an initial shower, which I did, even though my paper flip-flops were practically wilting in the heat. After toweling off, I was to have a physical examination by the resident nurse. Behind the door of a small, closet-sized room diagonal from the bag-check counter, stood a bald, brooding man in scrubs, hunched over a desk. He was clearly unhappy to be there and who could blame him? His job was to, basically, examine the members of the male members of the gym who dared step foot in the pool.
To say the least, it was an intimidating environment for a diagnostics check. I swore if he was going to make me turn and cough I would turn and run. Oddly, though, it became a self-inspection with an audience. The ¨nurse¨ stayed behind the desk and grunted commands in Spanish as I spread my fingers, toes and other unprintable areas apart for his approval. I suppose he approved because he gave me a card, good for 15 days after which I would need to endure yet another medical peep show.
Finally, after about half-an-hour of the preceding nonsense, I was poolside. The pool wasn't going to win Olympic committee approval but it was big enough to be divided into at least four lanes. The lifeguard took the card the nurse gave me and then explained how the pool was divided. There were three speeds; a slow lane, a medium speed lane and two rapido lanes. Signs were actually posted on the deck indicating which lane was which.
I was feeling confident that day, but not cocky so I opted for the medium speed. I walked to the ladder and tossed the tiny towel the gym had rented me down on a chair along the way. The temperature of the water felt a couple of steps up from bathwater which made sense as there seemed to be about fifty skullcaps floating around in the pool at once. I had apparently picked a popular time. The majority of the swimmers were clustered along the ends of each lane just hanging out and socializing with each other. These Buenos Aires cafes-in-miniature, left little room for the three or four bodies doing the actual swimming. Still, I climbed down the ladder and made my way to the medium speed lane and waited to work myself into the rhythm. Once a slot opened up, I carefully eyed the geriatric competition to my left and then began my rendition of the breast stroke.
When I had reached the other side of the lane for the first time, the lifeguard came up to the edge of the pool and told me that I could not wear my glasses in the water as I normally do. He said I needed to wear goggles and that they could rent them to me. I looked at him for a second with disbelief, wondering if I would be charged a rental fee for the water, too. Sensing I wasn't going to win that argument I turned around and proceeded to swim back. As I was making my way, via the side stroke, the person behind me kept running into my feet, which of course made me try to swim faster, but not too fast or I would run into the person in front of me.
Needless to say, human bumper cars got annoying quick and put a serious cramp in my technique. After about ten minutes, or what I thought was ten minutes considering the wall clock was all of sudden blurry, I headed for the metal ladder and climbed out. I grabbed my hand towel, and tried to dry myself off as best I could. Carefully, I made my way back to the locker room, internally vowing to just stick to the elliptical machine.
The following visit, I did just that. I stayed on dry land amidst the second floor's exercise machine jungle. I did thirty minutes on the elliptical and pumped some proverbial iron on those very machines while trying to stay focused. The Rick Astley videos projected on the gym wall aside, the aforementioned Argentine women make working out somewhat difficult as they like to wear even less than they do outside. I'm sure I'm not the first guy who has lost count of their repetitions. What's more, younger or older, a crushing majority of the women working out alongside me looked as if they had absolutely no reason to be at a gym in the first place. Except maybe to mock those of us who do.
Health-wise, porteños really are a two-faced bunch. They engage in the health-conscious shtick while inside the gym but once outside they are their usual avidly smoking, red-meat eating, cheese-inhaling, red wine-quaffing selves. And yet, I rarely see evidence on the treadmill or the exercise bike of such an allgedly reckless lifestyle. There's the old portion control argument and I'm sure there's something to be said about genetics. Or maybe it's the long hours spent at places like Megatlon, which are open 24-hours a day. Swimming certainly can't have much to do with it.
Perhaps what works for them is a combination of what Americans may consider unhealthy eating and a healthy addiction to working out. So, I attend the gym, the parilla (or steakhouse) and the pizza places, regularly. Maybe these porteños are on to something. Or maybe it's all just dog shit.
Megatlon... what a name! I can't believe they do an INSPECTION before you swim!!! Ha!! I love it. If you get tired of being inspected, I believe the Grand Plaza Marriott has a daily pass to lap up their gorgeous pool overlooking the cathedral and Plaza San Martin. Can't believe they told you to ditch the glasses too. Ha!!
Posted by: Sian | April 29, 2007 at 10:43 PM
Geroge, you really have the writing gift that brings dog shit to life. I can smell it a hemisphere away.
Can you post some pics of a BA street, preferably with women and shit?
Another great entry...keep em coming.
Posted by: Tom | April 30, 2007 at 11:10 AM
George, i know all the things about what you are saying. first the young man, i hope is not me because im luis, not juan, and second, parila is PARRILLa. but apart from that, it´s really a good article, i like it very much, we ( the common Argentinian ) are not used to do gym, but i tell you that the people that goes to one of them is rich people, or have a good salary, so is not people who buy cheap food, the thing is that, our rich people always wants to shows them glamorous, or shows more money that really they have, thats why in Megatlon every thing is expensive, or you have to pay for all. if you goes to another gym that is not going to happen, but you choose the best gym that we have in Capital, and i´m not defending the gym i defending your and i idea, that is ridiculous. And finally, that thing taht you talk, Woman, we have the finest and georgeous woman in the world, and i´m not exagereting, search on the web Pampita, Pamela David,Florencia Peña, Victoria Oneto, Veronica Varano or the internatinal Valeria Massa taht have 5 kids, but is a model. the trick is that thay are all ARGENTINAS, like "el Mate", "EL DIEGO with the 10 in his shirt",and el Che. Man you are the greatest man i talk to, keep being like you are. see you
Posted by: Luis | May 01, 2007 at 09:47 AM