The Dance of the Gym Rats

Megatlon, the bastion of sweat in B.A. that sounds like it could be the 119th element, is a spindly-shaped outcrop of a big shopping mall in Alto Palermo. From placid Arenales Street, there's a staircase like those that lead to small planes. The second floor windows emit yellowy light and music with a pumping bass. Inside, a card-activated metal turnstile keeps outsiders out. "¿Sí?" says the bored-looking receptionist.

"¡Sí!, ¿Tengo una entrada?"

"¿Que?"

"¿Un pase?"

"¿De qué?"

The farse continues for awhile. Finally directions arise for the receptionist, which apparently this mean and overly fake-baked St. Peter is not.  After not-so-stealth appraisals from behind the divider, an extremely fit and equally orange person begins the interrogation. Attempts at humor are met with blank stares. But the thing is done. It's finally done. Wait...it can't be that every one of the treadmills is occupied. And no one's allowed in the spinning class early. Have I somehow wondered into the mall? I'm surrounded by aggressively fit, sparsely dressed people. One of them, I am very obviously not.