The color scheme at my former gym may have been olive and orange, but the ambience was definitely pink. Obviously, my Swedishness forbade me to inquire, but I guess that a quick poll would have shown that pretty much ninety percent of all the men who frequented that place — except perhaps for Alex, the cleaner — were gay.
This impression was strengthened by the soundtrack that accompanied my workouts. There was a constant sound-carpet of bubble-gum pop and nightclub dance remixes pouring out of the loudspeakers.
I thought that this was the state of affairs at all the gyms in Sin City, but — having switched to a gym closer to home — I now think I’ll have to revise this theory. Here, all the camp classics are replaced by Aerosmith, Guns N’ Roses and John Bon Jovi. Is this a sign that my new health club is the headquarters of the last remnants of heterosexual males between the Ayalon and the Mediterranean?
Or, perhaps more likely, is it just an indication that this is the place where the not-so-hip homos go to work out?
Entry filed under: Tel Aviviana.