The Palester

July 31,2006

I miss going to the gym. Sometime between my junior and senior year of college I started working out, and since then going to the gym has been something I did. I’ve never had any particular goal in mind, just to maintain my current level of mediocre fitness. In college going to the gym provided a new form of procrastination, and, one that I could spin to others and in my own head as being productive. After college – when, despite being gainfully employed, I was the most broke of my life and certainly couldn’t afford something like cable – the gym was a place to watch T.V. In hindsight, springing for the cable box would have been cheaper than the gym membership, and I could’ve enjoyed the Food Network in the comfort of my own home.

I like exercising, I’m not self-conscious about sweating, – which I do in abundance – or the different lifting weights faces. I feel good afterward, and, working out earns me at least two beers on credit when I go to the bar that night. I also miss the gym culture. Where to begin with this…

Division of labor: Men and women may use treadmills and bikes. It is acceptable for men to use the Stair Steppers, but it better be one hell of a climb, and efforts should be made not allow the phenomenon to spread. Ellipti-cycle things are for women only. Rowing machines are avoided by most – who can really do one of those things for more then ten minutes? Men use free weights, women use weird machines that certainly don’t do anything – most gyms conveniently segregate weight equipment into a Man Room and a Girl Room.

Etiquette: It’s annoying, and something that has nearly caused me to backhand a woman, but when someone comes over and says “umm, I’m sorry, but I signed up for that treadmill,” you have to relinquish it. However, it is unacceptable to sign up for a machine three hours in the future, and also to demand a particular treadmill if there are other identical treadmills available. Men may work in on sets with a man, and women may do this with women. If you are the one imposing, then it is your responsibility to be ready to work at the pace of the other guy, make note of the other guy’s weight and settings on the machine, and return them to where they were when your done. Bringing you own music and requesting that they play it on the gym speakers is not allowed and should lead to the revocation of membership. Filling up water bottles at the drinking fountains is fine, – get out of the way if there are people waiting – spitting in the fountains is not.

Gyms seem to have different standards when it comes to wiping down equipment after use. This is a practice that I’ve seen each and every person do like lemmings at some gyms, while leaving a small puddle behind is acceptable at others. I prefer to leave this up to one’s own discretion. It’s safe to assume that anyone that is paying ninety-dollars a month to go to a gym three times a week is a well-groomed person and that you won’t contract ring worm if the shoulder-press machine isn’t disinfected every three minutes. On the other hand, you should be aware of your own level of nastiness and wipe down when necessary.

Gym Socializing: I don’t do it. For me, Gym mingling will rarely move beyond a “hi, how’s it goin,” a wave, or a head nod. Outside of the high school girls – easily identified by the butt-sweatpants that say something like “juicy” or have the logo of the college they just visited across the ass – most people seem to be of the same mind as me when it comes to gym socializing.

People Watching: This alone is worth the price of membership. While I don’t talk to people at the gym, I do spy on them. I construct identities for people based on how they work out, the clothes the wear, the magazines they read, and the way they move around the gym. After going to the same gym for maybe a month, I am able to predict on any given day which people will be there, at what time, and what machines they may be occupying. The people I share the gym with, even though I certainly never talk to them, become part of the workout routine. When the middle-aged guy with the fanny-pack isn’t on the stationary bike at 5:30 I’m kind of thrown off rhythm.

It is inevitable that I see other regulars outside of the gym. We may pass on the street or be in the same checkout line at the supermarket. We recognize each other, and, through our mutual spying, we know things about each other. I know how much they can bench press, they know how far I ran yesterday, and we have well-developed opinions – with supporting evidence – about each other’s respective levels of fitness. Better yet is crossing paths in a social situation. I may recognize someone at a bar or restaurant, they recognize me, and we know things about each other that we probably don’t talk about with our friends and current company.

Locker Rooms: As I’ve already discussed, I don’t like to talk to people at the gym, and this is especially true in the locker room. I seem to be in the minority in this regard, but I see the locker room as a place to get dressed and get out.


Last week John, my site mate, and I decided we’d start going to the palester, (gym), in Lezha. As seems to be the case among Europeans in general, Albanians look askance at the idea of deliberately doing exercise. The fact that Lezha has a palester is only outdone by the fact that Albanians actually use it. John and I had heard about a palester in Lezha, had seen the building from the outside, and confirmed through others that there was in fact – on the third, windowless floor of a particularly Stalinist-looking building downtown – a place that Albanians went to exercise. It took five weeks for our curiosity to get the best of us and we decided to check out the palester.

The third floor of the building felt like an attic. It didn’t seem like the type of space that was intended to house people, but I’ve been in a lot buildings in Albania that seemed altogether inhospitable only to find out that I was in City Hall, a hospital, or a school. The palester was divided into two open rooms. One contained weights, machines, and other equipment. The other was an open studio kind of space. It looked like the room that, in America, the resident Tae-Bo or Jazzercise instructor would hold court might. Here, there were a few jump ropes lying around and a broken sit-up thing. The palester was carpeted in what I’m sure was the old Astroturf from Veterans Stadium. The smell…I’d rather not rehash it.

John and I stood just inside the door for a few minutes. There was what looked to be a reception desk directly in front of us. But, where at the Ann Arbor Y there are no fewer than a half-dozen uniformed people clicking away at computers and going over brochures with people, here there was nothing. On the wall was a chart of diagrams of free weight exercises that looked like the things Soviet gymnasts would have been forced to do at a Siberian Olympic internment camp.

We wandered through the palester. There were about twelve guys ranging in age from fifteen to forty pumping iron and one poor bastard struggling with a self-propelled treadmill – why were these things ever made?!!!! There was a marked contrast in gym attire from what John and I were used to in America. Rather than the UnderArmour, BreathRite, Nike, or GoreTex designer stuff, most guys just didn’t wear shirts or shoes.

“Dude, if we start working out here I’m going to bring a bottle of Windex or something to hose this stuff down before we touch it,” said John, the public health volunteer.
“If we start working out here I’m going to wear latex gloves,” I said. “May be I’ll just get a space suit.”

We did start working out at the palester. Our first trip was quickly derailed. We decided that we’d go in the afternoon, in the hope that the no-shirt, no-shoes guys were an after work crowd. We walked in and immediately noticed that there were only women in the palester. John and I could not remain inconspicuous, the needle came off the record, and we were met with a:

“Ahhhhh, djem, djem, djem jeni ketu!!” – boys, boys, boys are here.

The women scurried behind the cubicle partition that was the locker room. We were confronted by a compact woman who proceeded to speak quickly and accusatively at us until we fled. Apparently, for a few hours in the afternoon the palester is for women only. We would have no choice but to share the palester with shirtless Albanian men. Who’s jealous ladies?

There are some things that carry over from American gyms. Every gym in the U.S. has a few guys – it’s only ever men – who, when they lift weights, have decided to sacrifice all form, technique, and safety in favor of throwing up a huge amount of weight, once maybe twice. They pace from end to end for most of the time they’re in the gym, stare down the barbell they’ve decided to dominate, approach their victim, grip the bar, take several big bad wolf breaths, lift the bar, and proceed to writhe, squirm, yell, kick, and almost give birth, before they get one repetition. Afterward they leap up, stare down the lesser men in the gym, and strut around for a few minutes like they just performed something truly impressive before hitting the showers. What a workout!! That would be how every Albanian man lifts weights at the palester in Lezha. John and I are sure we’re going to see some guy get his arms ripped off SNL Hanz and Franz style.

All this being said, having a palester in Lezha is somewhat of a coup. John and I have been going about twice a week – by that I mean once a week – and have been treated to the Albanian gym culture. I still miss going to American gyms with their air conditioning, multiple TVs, nice machines that are actually comfortable to sit in, and attractive people. But I’ve come around to the no shirt no shoes thing. It’s a lot less restrictive, kind of liberating, and….just kidding.