In Italy, people think I am a jock. In America, people wonder how I ever passed P.E. Although the difference in athletic activity between Rome and New York may be wider than the Tiber, it has made me question who is healthier in the sports’ department.
It wasn’t until I moved to Italy and noticed what daily intakes of pasta were doing to my thighs that I started exercising regularly. At home in New York, going to the gym or to a yoga class always felt like a contest. If I had only been twice a week, I was often given that glance I recognized from fifth grade when I was the last person chosen for kickball. In America, I fear that people suspect the truth: my yoga pants are put to more use in a dead man’s pose on my couch than in a downward dog on an exercise mat.
But in Italy, when I announce that I go to the gym twice a week, I am awarded with raised eyebrows, a glance of suspicion, and an occasional “che brava” whispered sotto voce. In America, my white sneakers often reveal to The Fit their new release from their box. Here, the whiter, the cooler.
Unlike the theory about French women, I am not convinced that Italian women stay slim from smoking – many work out. I used to think Italians did not exercise. But in the seven years I have lived in Rome, I have witnessed the very Romans who used to dismiss exercise as unnecessary to now bragging about their personal trainer. Many lawyers rush to the soccer fields in the evening after court. Beaches outside Rome are lined with spinning and step classes throughout the summer months. Romans bike to work or along the river on weekends, and wear running shoes as fashion statements. In the summer 2004 Olympics, Italy took home 32 medals, of which ten were gold, ranking eighth out of the 71 countries that participated, and coming in first for Women’s Water Polo and Men’s Fencing. An Italian carabiniere from Abruzzo just recently beat two Kenyans in winning the Rome marathon.
But it’s how the Italians exercise that I admire – quizzically.
Almost every meal in Italy ends not with a coffee but a passeggiata. Technically defined as a walk, more than anything, it’s a languid stroll. If your heart starts to beat between strides, you’re walking too fast. I grew up thinking that a walk was something you performed rigorously, wearing sneakers that, at its best, could end with an edible treat. My father lured us to walk to the top of Mount Desert Island’s Bubble Mountains with the promise of a Jordan Pond House popover at the bottom.
Yet in Italy, you don’t lace up your running shoes for a passeggiata. High heels will do. Sometimes it looks like the more uncomfortable the shoe the more adapt it is for cobblestone hobbling. Whenever my Italian husband and I take a passeggiata after dinner, I feel like an ostrich craning my neck to try to maintain a flow in the conversation as I walk several paces ahead of him. Slow as the ritual walk may be, it sets the stage for a graceful exit from a dinner and makes no room for the quick, American, see-ya salutations.
During a recent walk with an Italian in a park in Rome, a fit jogger raced past us with the red face and beaded brow of a marathon runner. “It’s disgusting how much he sweats,” said the Italian. “He should really change his clothes.”
The key to working out in Italy is adhering to the nation’s mantra of maintaining a bella figura, looking good with little effort. Dressing down in Italy does not happen much, even at the gym. You will never see an Italian woman doing errands in sweatpants and sneakers. Two unspoken rules apply to exercising in Italy: keep sweat down to a minimum and do not remove your jewels or make-up.
For a sneak preview of how Italians exercise, I invite you to my gym. Most Roman gyms cram equipment into what really should remain a two-bedroom apartment. Yet mine has an American look to it: approximately 50 Technogym machines in front of a wall of television screens, clean locker rooms, and a spacious, luminous wood-floored room for aerobics classes. Look closely, however, and the Italian nuances surface.
For starters, the bodies are not those I usually see in American locker rooms: Coppertone, Evian or Nivea could easily pick up a few models in the ladies’ room. I need a magnifying glass to locate the fat they are trying to burn off. Loose t-shirts are absent and cleavage is crucial. Rarely is there a line for the treadmill because most gym members are on the stationary bike where pedaling and talking on the cell phone can happen at the same time. In a recent Pilates class, a student’s cell phone rang during leg lifts. He calmly answered his phone, and responded to the caller’s questions in between kicks. Our teacher simply raised her voice between uno-due-tre as her student conducted telephonic business.
Even though everyone working out in the gym is presumably there to battle the culinary effects on their bodies, food virtually floats in the air. The gym’s chef shuffles around in his white hat and slippers when not behind the stove preparing lunch. Television screens flash cooks demonstrating how to perfect Roman plates of pasta. In between sets on the weights, a personal trainer asks his client if he wants to take a break – over a cappuccino. “Stomp your feet as if you were crushing grapes for a Chianti!” screamed one aerobics instructor one morning. “Kick your legs as if you were making pesto!” said my Pilates teacher. How can I master an athletic challenge if I haven’t even experienced the culinary one?
The jury is still out on whose healthier. But I love feeling as if my work-out habits might qualify me for The Guinness Book of World Records. I actually go to the gym more now out of fear of damaging my newfound reputation. And my favorite part about exercising in Italy is the aftermath: you celebrate over carbs.
