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Mozzarella No More!
Adrian Kiger

Recently, in an effort to fight my impending seasonal January depression, I joined a health club. I was determined to release my dormant endorphins and let the good vibrations flow. I scouted out the Club Francesco Conti, perfectly situated amidst the edge of Industrial Milan where I live, and right on a hip-fashion-boutique-filled street named Corso Como. Club Francesco, like Milan, is functional and attractive, synonymous with good design. The club contains three floors of everything my fit-seeking hopes and dreams could ask for…two large weight machine rooms equipped with over 50 walking machines, “butt buster” stair masters, and stationary bikes. Various rectangular mirrored rooms house fitness classes varying from “Kick-Fit” to “Funky Hip Hop.” Francesco Conti also boasts a five-lane pool, Turkish baths in both the men’s and women’s dressing rooms, cedar-wood lined sauna rooms, 10 showers, a “duche solar” room where you can put your face in a machine of luxury lighting and come out looking, well, sunned I suppose. And of course at an extra charge massage appointments can be made. There are classes for kids, and classes for elderly. There are Club employees on duty all the time in every part of the place, answering questions, offering sometimes unsolicited advice but nevertheless, present to help me GET FIT!

Before I was allowed to use all of this paraphernalia though, I had to first receive my “Certificato di Salute,” a Certificate of Health from the club’s doctor. The Doctor’s office is located within The Club and the appointment costs 40 Euros extra in addition to the 390 Euros I paid for three months at Club Francesco Conti. My evening appointment with Dottore Marcello Nava consisted of questions about how often I “take coffee,” what kind of “sport” I like to do, and him asking me to disrobe but not providing the napkin dress I was used to changing into at Doctor’s appointments. Italians bring my shy side to light quickly, and suddenly I felt like a pre-teen girl trying on my first bra in front of my mother. The Doctor spoke up after noticing the look of confusion on my face as I peered out from behind the changing room’s curtain wearing only my granny panties, “Questo non e America,” he said with a smirk. “Lo so,” I replied, rolling my eyes. I know this is not America, but that doesn’t make it easier. Eventually I decided he was harmless, and quickly strode to the table upon which he proceeded to perform an EKG to check my heart rate with a machine that reminded me of the 1950’s. He made a program for me to take to my new personal trainer who was to show me the ways and means of the weight machines. After my exam was complete, I met my trainer, Giancarlo, a young bald guy with a criminal smile and a gentle demeanor. “Piano, piano,” he advised me to take the exercises “slowly, slowly” and to not expect results overnight. He continued, “Pero…non ci mangia un cheeseburger dopo, o questo non funziona.” I wondered how he knew about my affinity for McDonalds on Sundays because he told me that I could not eat cheeseburgers and expect these exercises to work.

Depleted of energy and in need of a snack, one day after a workout I wandered into the club’s health food store, knowing I wouldn’t find a cheeseburger, but I didn’t expect to find wine. Before I moved to Italy I knew there were health benefits to drinking wine, but coming from America where the majority consume low-quality alcohol in mass quantities (a.k.a. light canned beer) and consider anyone who drinks daily an alcoholic, I still giggled to see the shelves stocked with the reds and whites of the Lombardi region and not a soy product to be found.

Although I know there are healthful aspects to drinking wine, I still don’t think there are any to smoking. One day I strolled up to the club and found one of the employees, a young friendly girl, puffing away on a cigarette, sucking it desperately during one of her breaks. Most of the employees at Club Francesco Conti have the tell-tale yellow stains on their teeth that advertise this oh-so-European habit. My trainer Giancarlo, who I would venture to say is a “fitness geek,” even has yellow stains on his teeth. Maybe those stains are from a combination of having had too much coffee and not enough dental care, but the chances are good that he smokes. I find it most ironic that Giancarlo and many Italians denounce cheeseburgers as unhealthy and then light their fourth cigarette of the day. Cigarette machines are acceptable but McDonald’s is associated with the devil.

As I knew from my experience with the Doctor, Italians are also not a bashful flock. The dressing room is yet another opportunity for the women to strut their stuff. Women of all ages, degrees of cellulite, and levels of wrinkles, proudly prance nude to and from the Turkish bath. It’s impossible to subtly enter the sauna and slowly release the grip on my towel. No, no…the door flies open just as I am spreading my naked self out on the soft cedar wood and some glamorous grandma has ARRIVED in her birthday suit. She even kept her gold on this time, and exclaimed “Que freddo, questi giorni!” How cold these days are! and then “Mi fa male le spalle,” My shoulders are hurting me. I sit and smile, understanding every word and giggling to myself, the fly on the wall.

Trying to blend in is a lost cause as I am one of the most pale of the bunch. In the past, on a beach in Italy, a passer-by once commented, “Tu se come una mozzarella.” After some investigative conversations with Italian friends, I was assured that this comment was made only in reference to my skin colour but it was a bit disturbing to be compared to a big, white, soft lump of cheese that floats in water. After I got over the shock and realized that the comment wasn’t as insulting as I thought, I have grown proud of my skin as it sets me apart from the masses of olive-toned Mediterranean ladies that abound in the dressing room. Now, among the dark goddesses in the dressing room at Club Francesco Conti, I feel rare and exotic, and nothing like a mozzarella.

What also took some getting used to is the rampant flirting amongst fellow fitness freaks with each other and with the trainers. It is shameless and can often be intrusive, but I must admit that a coy smile does cross my face when some stud trainer comes swaggering up to me while I am pumping iron. Once when I was on all fours doing leg lifts a trainer walked up to me and asked how it was going. “Uh,” I thought, “it’s great, my ass feels like it’s on fire, but it’s great, really, just great.” Sometimes I just want to be left alone with my disc-man and tunes and just “zen” it all while I workout. However, anytime I try to do that, one Italian or another gets in my business. They want to know where I’m from, what my deal is, and if they can get a piece of my “action.” Although sometimes this annoys me, I open myself to this strong tradition of flirting because in the end, the attention makes me feel good.

All in all, Club Francesco Conti is a great place to go and pay to be tortured. Oh, that’s right, exercise is good (my new mantra) and it makes me feel good too. I do enjoy walking through the front door three to five times a week (depending on my ever-fluctuating levels of depression and motivation) and hearing “Buonasera, Signorina” sung to me again and again. The Club itself is not only a place in which I worked to make my bum tighter, but a cultural experience that exposed me to many of the joys of living, Italian style. Soon after I started frequenting Francesco Conti, I started pouring myself a glass of vino rosso when I got home after a workout, strutting my pale stuff through the corridors of the women’s locker-room wearing only my jewels, flirting like a foolish fourteen-year-old with tall dark and macho trainers named Guido and Giuseppe and accomplishing my initial objective of over-coming seasonal January depression, if not by way of endorphins and exercise then through the healing powers of some good entertainment.