…lift something

Two days ago was the 4^th 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.