Two days ago was the 4th of July and even though
I know it happened, I have no memories of celebrating the fourth outside of
America’s borders. So here’s to making memories. I allowed a bit of
homesickness to be shaken, not stirred, with a bit of pride. I put on some red,
white and blue and planned a hamburger-and-corn-on-the-cob-and-potato-salad
dinner over a campfire in the nearby countryside. Two Danes, an Aussie, a Kiwi
and a Palestinian celebrated with we-three-Americans and joined in reveling in
our rebellious histories where we defied great Britain and lifted off the yoke
of bondage. I suppose that’s a bit dramatic but hey, it’s the Fourth. Lets get
dramatic. The Danes spoke of freedom from the Nazi occupation, the Oceanics
dreamed of a queen-less future and the helicopters overhead said enough for our
Palestinian friend.
We sang the appropriate patriotic songs (this rendition of
“The Star Spangled Banner” was the most meaningful of my whole life), and ended
the evening with some illegal fireworks. Between those and some successful
cooking over the campfire, we agreed that our dads would have been so proud.
The night was thoroughly American.
And I was happy for the evening off. Some classes were
cancelled so we could celebrate and my aching body rested from going to the
gym. Yes, I’ve been going to the gym. Codo Gym, where flexing bodybuilders and
WWE champions glare down at me with their shining build and skimpy undies.
One of my many encounters with a native has turned from pal
to gym-buddy. Walking home one day, I met Karram, who looks exactly like a
blue-less Avatar; he works at a men’s clothing shop that I pass everyday, and
so another pit-stop was added to my commute. A couple of days later he asked me
if I wanted to go the gym. Never before have I answered ‘yes’ with such
confidence, for after two months of sitting at a desk and eating
bread-with-anything, I really wanted to
go to the gym, really. My only hang-up: he didn’t get out of work until 10pm.
Late, but worth it, even with my mornings being cut shorter. It’s a necessary
evil, I suppose, to vanquish the real enemies: muffin topper and lethargisizer.
And it was immediately satisfying.
It is a funny kind of gym, though. Without any women it is a
kind of frat-house where some bros are chubby, some are fit, and some are stuck
in the 90s with oversized biceps and chests and hair parted down the middle.
The equipment is mostly good, but there is only one or two of each machine. And
the treadmill stares right into a mirror, so you can see every loose section of
flesh flail as you sweat and grunt and regret what you had for lunch. Running
has always been good for self-reflection, I suppose.
But weights are weights and, despite the use of kilos as
measurement, they work just fine. So I lift them. And though I am there to stay
fit and active, I am turning into the gym entertainer. See, I am American so I must know great workout music. They ask me about Eminem
and 50 Cent and play music that sends me back to high school dances and then
take the weights out of my hand and demand that I teach them to dance like an
American. I dodge this by joking, “you need a woman to dance like we do in the
states.” They laugh and high-five me; it suffices. Back to weights.
It doesn’t happen like this in the States. No, when I enter
the gym here I greet the other usuals with handshakes and smiles and waves to
those who are momentarily weighed down. They shout out “Marhabbah Wisam!” I
hold a membership for “Wisam Himony,” which is my Arabic name. Here I am always
Wisam. I fill up my water bottle, wave to the men ironically smoking by the
window, and get started.
But on the Fourth, I was Simon. I lifted the Arab identity
and remembered the eye-contact-less gyms of the States where we pretend we are
the only ones in the room. I skipped the Arab frat party for my own American
one. And as my family in Maine camped in the woods without me, I set off some
fireworks and celebrated a home-away-from-home. And on Thursday, I was Wisam
again.
