The New Muscle Beach

 Tim and I are gym people.  It had been part of our regular routine since college.  I think it is safe to say that Italians, on the whole, are not gym people.

The two of us came over with the agreement that we could and would immerse ourselves in the culture. “When in Rome”….and all that. We had no intention of joining a gym. All of the walking and all of the hills would be more than enough to keep us fit. 

So how could I break it to him that I craved a real workout? That my American-ness was slowly raising its hand, demanding to be heard?  I hated to be the first to weaken.

I peered over at him from my chair as we sat, side by side watching the news. The mid-morning sun streamed into the room through the sliding glass door and danced off the polished wood floors. I started to drum my fingers.  Then a quiet toe tap.

He looked over.  “Too much coffee?”

“No, I’m good.” A loud exhale.

“What?”  He looked me in the eye.

“Well I’ve noticed a few of those…what do you call them?  Palestras. Yeah, those, you know, gyms.  They’re kinda hidden. Tucked away. So they’re hard to see.”

He slowly took a sip of coffee. I detected a twinkle in his eye.  “Me, too,” he finally said after watching me squirm for a few long minutes. “And,” he stood up, “as a matter of fact there is one right next to the kid’s school.”

A short bus ride later we were standing outside a basement palestra that proudly called itself “The New Muscle Beach”. 

“Nothing about the place looks new to me.” Tim muttered as we walked down the ramp and inside a door that had been propped open with an ancient barbell.  A fit, middle aged man with black hair and restless dark eyes stood behind the counter in a red sweat suit that bore the name of the gym.

“Buongiorno,” he greeted us with curiosity.

“Buongiorno,” we answered in unison.

“We’re interested in joining,” Tim said to the man’s confused expression.

“Uhh…palestra? Noi.” I motioned to the two of us. Could I please learn some more Italian? 

“Si, si, si.  I am Maurizio,” he put his hand out to shake ours. “Follow me. My English is little.”   He showed us around.  Located in the basement of the building, the place was small and dingy with neutral colors and just a few high windows. But it was clean, and Maurizio was quite proud of the improvements he was making to two tiny rooms that would soon hold Spinning bikes. 

The cardio equipment was eclectic and rickety. Nothing matched and some of the pieces had handmade signs that said they were “being fixed”.  I felt like Rudolf in the Land of the Misfit Toys. 

“Is there a water fountain?” I asked.
”No,” said Maurizio. “But we do have that.” He pointed to the communal espresso machine.

“What are your hours?”

“The gym opens “around” 9:00 AM.”   I had been around long enough now to know that basically meant whenever he finished his coffee and morning cigarette at the coffee bar next door.

“Closed Sundays.” Of course. 

Tim jumped in, “In LA the gyms open around 5:00 AM.”  Maurizio stopped abruptly and looked at us like we just told him that we were there to plant a bomb and hold him hostage.

“Why would they do that?” he demanded like it was the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

For the first time, I could see the absurdity of how much we used to cram into our day. I didn’t know how to answer him.  “I don’t know why,” I finally managed to spit out, “To fit it in, I guess.”  He shook his head.

We signed up for an initial three month membership and then started our work out.  Tim jumped on one of the bikes, and I chose a treadmill despite having already walked two miles that morning.  Just as we were settling into a good pace, billows of cigarette smoke started to waft by us sucking the oxygen out of the air.  We looked around and saw that Maurizio was standing just outside the door, puffing away.

Tim started to choke.  My contacts started to burn. We looked around but saw no windows to open.  We laughed and took a deep breath of smoky air. 

“Well, when in Rome,” Tim said.

“Exactly,” I answered as I picked up the pace.