A Legend in My Own Mind
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in London, where we are (maybe-probably-it’s unclear) staying for a month. Also, I’m pretty certain this is my 300th newsletter; I believe people who write newsletters and blogs and things of that ilk are meant to point out when they hit nice round numbers like 300, so thank you to all of you who read and share and comment and question my ramblings. Also also, for my American readers, I hope you enjoy the holiday weekend!
A Legend in My Own Mind
Our London month started with me yelling at Lee about the broken ac in our Airbnb. (Because he has control over that? I am irrational when overheated.) Perhaps you saw headlines about the heatwave in Europe? Yes, the UK is part of Europe, and it has been toasty. Anyway, that saga is still unfolding.
The more interesting part of my week was my quest to join a gym.
I joined one in Slovenia, which was massive and modern and perpetually abuzz with pretty people in their stylish workout clothes, drinking smoothies and lifting weights and socializing between sets.
So when we arrived in Dalston, a neighborhood in East London that feels a bit like the further reaches of Brooklyn, I looked for something similar. There are five gyms in a three block radius of our apartment; I assumed I’d just slot right into one of them and pick up where I’d left off in Ljubljana.
No such luck. The one across the street has a six-month minimum contract. The one in the next block is some kind of pod set-up where you work out in your own private space—probably very nice, but also expensive. There’s a place that only has spin classes, and there’s a climbing center.
And then there’s Legends, which is where I inquired next.
The entrance is on an alley, behind an anonymous black door, and up a metal staircase, beneath which years’ worth of wrappers and cartons and cans have piled up. It’s literally trashy; the day I went to join, I had to force myself up, one step at a time.
Legends is not, shall we say, where the pretty people are hanging out, but they do have an option to join for just one month. I tapped my phone on the credit card machine and promised to come back the next day for a workout.
My new gym is even more jammed than the gym in Slovenia, but with banged-up, ancient equipment in various states of disrepair. I don’t know how most of it works. The place is not air-conditioned. The other members I’ve seen are, well, legends (possibly only in their own minds, or possibly once upon a time in a boxing ring or some other scary space that I know nothing about). They’re body-builders. Mostly men, mostly older, mostly with really big muscles, some with gold teeth.
They’re all incredibly focused on lifting heavy things. No one is sitting around staring at their phone, or having social hour on the rowing machine.
The owner and the manager are completely lovely. During our conversation about whether or not I should join, I told them truthfully that I was kind of intimidated by the place. I’m very middle-aged, my muscles are pretty dinky, and the things I can lift are not very heavy. They could not have been more welcoming and encouraging, and during both of my workouts thus far, they’ve made a point of checking in, asking if I have questions, offering to show me how the machines work.
I am so out of my league in this place, but I kind of love it. Bounding up those trashy stairs at 7:30 this morning, I felt like Rocky Balboa, except with a cuter outfit.
It’s not quite the same as going to the theatre and the British Museum, but it’s definitely expanding my cultural horizons.
Take care,
Lisa
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