Tags
american, exercise, expat, france, french, gym, journalism, journalist, le figaro, travel
Guess what? Le Figaro has a gym. I know. It is so corporate and so wonderful, especially in the glacial weather.
No one told me about the gym, which is hidden in the bowels of our massive building. But, quite honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the was a zoo in our building or maybe even a gateway to another world. It is absolutely huge and I am always stumbling on new stairways or elevators or rooms. Last week, I learned there is a whole different entrance to our building and frankly, the marble and the big sweeping double staircase are about as glorious as the Louvre.
In any case, another intern told me about the gym and emailed me the schedule of free classes.
Last Monday, I went down there with her. It really was at the end of the world: I swear we hiked through winding, nonsensical corridors for like ten minutes. I had almost lost faith in its existence when we arrived.
And sure enough, we opened a door and entered into a little tiny gym with a mirrored wall, a treadmill, weights, an elliptical and a changing room with showers. About twenty people in sweats were already lifting their arms in the air.
And so, in a surreal break from my day of news headlines, typing and translation, I joined the group. I love taking exercise, dance and yoga classes in French. You learn all different great words and if you don’t understand, you just look at everyone else and wave your arms like they are doing. You bond over the moves you can’t do (thirty more squats) and the small successes (drink break!).
Anyway, I had such a great time at Monday’s class that I returned a few days later. Because Monday’s class was pretty relaxing, I was not expecting an intense workout: but that is what I got. But then again, I never really end up getting what I am expecting in France (I should know that by now.)
A stocky former boxer cheered us on but counted brutally slowly as we strained every muscle in our bodies in squats and kicks and all the rest of it.
It was a great gym bonding experience and a little surreal to return to the newsroom afterwards. But that is what this gym is: surreal. And full of good stories.
The other day, I went with another intern and the instructor failed to show up. We were ready to give up when a journalist who happened to be working out decided to be a gym teacher for the day (I promise, we didn’t ask him to.) Instead, he just began to give us advice and pretty soon, instructions. Like many French people I have met, he had a way of seeming like a complete expert (I mean, who was I to know if he wasn’t?) and so when he said “fifty rotatations,” well, we did it.
Forty-five minutes later, we were sweaty and tired. Our “instructor” was still going strong, but we thanked him and made a quick exit towards the changing room.
As my friend so artfully put it, “He sure missed his true calling.”