Stretching in Argentina

"What, that's all?" So exclaimed my flamboyant Argentine gym teacher when he saw the (admittedly small) weights I had charged onto my bar during a class last week. I recently joined the neighborhood gym, which has turned out to be a hilarious decision. The friendly space seems unchanged since the 1980s-- equipment and outfits both. So far, every class has kicked off with between 15 minutes and 25 minutes of delay. The instructor himself is an institution within the establishment's wall. He is constantly encouraging us to pack on more weight-- whereas in Switzerland the teachers soothingly repeat that every person has to choose what is comfortable for them. We work out, most unfortunately, to the sound of old Ricky Martin hits and YMCA. Everyone in the class is incredibly friendly, as in Argentina in general, and a substantial portion of them insist on speaking their schoolkid French on me. Even the teacher sometimes translates "uno, dos, tres" to Moliere's tongue, in case I didn't get it. It's fun, full of contradictions and a pretty good workout. The most recent incongruity? At the end of the last lesson, he reminded us the gym would be closed the next day, due to the national Day of Independence. "Remember to eat lots of empanadas tomorrow!," he shouted as we streamed out.