At the Gym

In a building two blocks from my apartment, I take one of four mirrored elevators to the third floor and turn to enter the Hanyang Fitness Center through two parallel glass doors. Inside on the right, perpendicular to the entrance, is a desk about four feet high. A cute, mid-20s (I think) Korean woman rises from her chair behind the desk smiles and greets me with "Ahnyong hahseo?" ("Hello", or literally translated: "Are you at peace?"). "Ahnyong hahseo," I repeat, but with a declarative tone: "Yes, I am at peace."

From my wallet I pull my gym membership card. She's already turning back around to face me, after grabbing one of many keys off of the wall. Into my hand, she puts the key. Into the key's cubby-hole, she puts my card. I give her a "Kahmsah hamnida" ("Thank you") and proceed to the mountains of gym-issued shirts, shorts, and towels on shelves.

On the top-left shelf are the larger orange "women's" shirts and shorts. On the top-right, larger grey "men's" shirts and navy shorts. The bottom shelves have the smaller size for each color, and the sky-blue towels. I grab a shirt, shorts and towel from the bottom rack, the only time in this country where I actually choose the smaller clothing size. 99% of the time, a "double extra-large" is equivalent to an American "large". At this gym, however, the 2XL shirt is too big.

Across from the shirts are the shoe-lockers. Nobody actually locks their shoes in; they leave the key in the lock. Locker two, about head-level, is where I always leave my shoes. Using the same locker is easier than remembering a different number every day. I, like everyone else, leave the key in the lock, and my shoes at the mercy of the few big-footed Korean men that exist.

Beside the shoe-lockers is another hallway, which I take. On the right side is a room with big glass windows. Usually, I see people playing table tennis. Sometimes, tai-chi class.

Straight ahead is a golf practice room. Golfing is very expensive in Korea, as vast expanses of non-concrete ground are almost non-existent. The practice rooms have hanging rubber-walls (a couple feet wide) that give a little when the ball hits. The ball then falls into a basket-catch. Having golfed only once in my lifetime, I am none-compelled to practice my swing (though many here practice their swings without ever having golfed). The locker room is to my left, so I turn from the people swinging, the clubs swooshing, the balls hitting, and enter.

Upon the floor lay many-a-pair of sneakers. I grab the cross-trainer shoes from my backpack (no dirty outdoor shoes in the gym) and leave them by the door. In my hand is the numbered key that the pretty woman at the desk hands me. I find the locker that corresponds to the key number, open it and throw my stuff in. Once changed into the gym-issued garb, I return to the door, put my shoes back on, and go do my workout.

When I return to the locker room, I throw my sweaty shorts and shirt into a basket under a counter of men's toiletries and hair-dryers. A large mirror hangs on the wall over the counter. Oftentimes I must dodge around and/or wait for other naked men drying/grooming themselves in front of the mirror before I can deposit the dirty laundry and lay my glasses down. Adjacent to the locker room is the shower room.

Before entering the shower room, I take the sky-blue towel and some dandruff shampoo (the air here is mean to me) from my locker. I take my key as well, and safely lock up my valuable belongings. In the shower room, I take my chances leaving the towel and key hanging on a rack by the door. This worked against me once:

I'd finished showering and went to the the towel rack by the doorway, only to find my key. No towel. Through the glass doors, I looked into the locker room at the many men drying themselves off with sky-blue towels. After dripping off for a couple of seconds, I opened the door and stood on the white floor mat by the shower room entrance. The hair dryers beckoned, but there were too many other naked men by the counter; too close for comfort, and I'd probably drip on them. So, I waited for things to clear up. One of the men saw me and handed me his (maybe my) towel, of which he'd finished using on his own previously-wet self.

I took the towel, gave a nod. "Kahmsah hamnida."