| The Anatomy of a Panama Gym Membership |
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| Written by Matt Landau | |
| Monday, October 22 2007 | |
It was one of my first days in Panama with fluent Spanish a distant twinkle in my eye, that the inevitable happened and I signed up for a gym membership. It was to be an important part of the New me: a Matt who would defy the typical American stereotype of being fat and lazy and generally embarrassing to be around. The gym was a notable step down from anything this American had ever experienced in the way of paid-fitness. The floor was carpeted with a smelly fabric that was curling on all edges as if trying to escape. The ceilings sported dim light bulbs that flickered when you touched them. And the rusted weight machines appeared to have been purchased sometime in the past century with peeling paint and the sort of rotted foam that looked to be infested with bugs. Membership was cheap, something like nine dollars a month, so I figured that if nothing else, at least my wallet would come out of the ordeal in decent shape. New gyms can be intimidating for people like me who clearly look like they've never been to one in their life. It's the same kind of reception a hooker might get in church: a bunch of strong, unapproachable eyes saying you know you don't belong here. But as the new kid on the block, I was luckily armed with a new Spanish phrase taught to me by a taxi driver named Paulo. "Use this phrase," he told me, "whenever you want to impress a Panamanian." Que sopa? is Panama's version of slang or pig Latin for what's up? And depending on your inflection, it can also mean what type of soup? So walking through my new gym, I used it generously and almost to a fault. To the buff man with the large leather belt: Que sopa? To the angry-looking gentleman curling a barbell the size of microwave: Que sopa? To the little man doing squats under a dangerously-significant bar of weights: Que sopa? It was my way of telling these guys I was unflappable. Everything is good in the hood. Que sopa? Que sopa? Que sopa? The owner of the joint showed me back to the changing room and showers which were decorated in a style I might describe as suicidal chic. Grey metal lockers, dirty rubber floor, and the conspicuous smell of bad cleaning bleach. The owner was a very serious man and I was trying my best to understand his muffled voice and do everything he demanded. "Here" the owner said, as he tossed me a towel about the size of a washcloth and gave me some brief instructions as to, I assumed, the rules and etiquette of the place. My Spanish wasn't terrific, but it was good enough to pick up the gist of his commands. They went something like, "this is your locker. You put your belongings in here. This is a sink. You wash your face here." "Que sopa" I said in acknowledgement. "This is where you shower first before you gym..." he said, as he pointed to three ugly metal stalls. Okay, que sopa I thought to myself. I've never heard of mandatory showering before working out, but OK. He began again. "This here is the toilet, you got..." and it was at this point I realized I was not listening but rather imagining what it might be like to have an industrial-sized fan, like the one propped up by the wall, in my bedroom. It was of enormous proportions, probably something like the machine they use to make pop singers hair flow in music videos. The man shook my hand and left and I began to partake in the various steps he seemed to be expecting of all gym members. I undressed and wrapped myself up in the tiny towel he provided, wondering to myself if all towels in Panama were the size of a paperback novel. I then began to poke around the room, much the way I do in doctor's offices. The cloth barely fit around my waist and probably resembled an inappropriate mini skirt. I peeked into the back room which appeared to be used as storage. I looked out the window which afforded a nice view of a cement parking lot. And I managed to open a drawer which offered several complimentary bars of soap packed with Chinese writing. This was the New Matt: curious, probing, cultured. But then suddenly, without warning, in came a group of massive and sweaty men, almost so abrupt that it was startling. So there I am, the less than buff naked gringo armed only with a washcloth and the word what kind of soup? Quite amusing are the thoughts that run through your head when you're standing in front of a squad of bodybuilders and wearing only a washcloth. The old Matt wanted desperately to jump out the window and hide in a trash can. But this was the new Matt. The adventurous Matt. The friendly Matt. "Hey amigos!" I said, trying to fashionably lean up against a set of lockers. "Que sopa?" What's up? This was probably the worst Que sopa has ever gotten me. Just lots of blank stares and confused muscle men. I noticed that one of them was holding a stack of full-sized towels and I wanted one of them so desperately. Hey, gimme one of those, I thought to myself. Buddy! Over here! Not knowing what else to do, the men disbanded into various spots in the locker room and I walked embarrassingly over to the shower where I found shelter in one of the stalls. Inside the shower booth was some derogatory graffiti about someone's mom and it struck me bizarre how anyone would take the time (or the materials) to do such a thing during a shower. I turned on the spigot, tossed my washcloth towel over the door, and waited for the water rise to an acceptable temperature As if the morning already was not awkward enough, upon turning the hot water nozzle up, the pressure of the shower became too strong and the loosely-affixed iron faucet head came flying off, striking me smack between the eyes. It was like being punched in the head by a robot. I fell to the floor from the force, naked, and what remained on the wall was merely a hole with scolding hot water pouring out of it, like a waterfall onto my chest. I lay there writhing in pain and trying to dodge the boiling cascade, swatting at the droplets like a giant swarm of gnats. If this was the kind of thing that happened often to the New Matt, I wanted nothing to do with him. The men in the locker room rushed to this American's aid, first offering me one of those long-awaited towels, then getting me a bag of ice for the golf ball-sized welt which would form on my head soon thereafter. These were nice guys, compassionate guys, nothing like the animals they invent on the gym-room floor. Once I regained my consciousness, we semi-discussed a number of topics, most notably that shower stall number three has always been out of order. These guys probably saw stuff like stupid gringos all the time. And my faucet-to-the-face incident would probably escape their memories after a couple of days. But for me, the morning was one that set the stage for many, many more proud moments to come. It was the kind of experience that will always remind me things are more interesting outside the bubble of comfort. Things are always more interesting with a Que sopa? One small step for Matt. One giant leap for Matt kind. Do you have any special phrases you like in Panama? OR do you have any good gym or exercise stories worth sharing? Use the comment form below to contribute... |
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