My Tribulations in the Gym of the Super Rich

Special Report

For my birthday, and for the sake of decadence, I decided to treat myself to a one-year subscription to a gym/spa at a five-star hotel. (Also, maybe because my doctor told me I have sky-high cholesterol…) The trouble is, the closest ‘normal’ gym to me is a bit too far for me to actually overcome my naturally ingrained laziness. I’ve already tried going there, but I just never managed to make it a habit. The closest option to me is this expensive, luxurious gym located in the basement of a five-star hotel. Determined not to let this deter me, I gathered my determination (and a sizable chunk of my savings) and decided that, fuck it, health is worth more than money.

This is my story.

For context, I’ve lived most of my life in rather ‘normal’ areas and only ever had access to standard, ‘plebeian’ sports facilities. Honestly, I’ve never been too big on fitness, so it’s not as if I have much experience. Still, I’ve done some fitness before, so I can compare.

But let me tell you about this place now.

The first thing that strikes you about the Rolls-Royce of fitness clubs (apart from the price, really) is that it’s located in this five-star hotel. Just getting inside that place makes one feel like Cinderella. At first, I tried going there dressed like a bag, but I attracted too many disapproving looks—at best. At worst, the security dude at the entrance actually looked through my bag at my undies and dirty socks. So, I started making an effort. Of course, I can’t quite compete with the folks in there, arriving in cars that would cost someone’s life savings and wearing eccentric outfits lined with fur or even bizarre semi-long jackets that look like 19th-century coats.

Anyway, in the fitness club of the super-rich, once you reach the reception, the staff actually jumps from their seats to welcome you—and they stay standing until you’re done with them, however long that might take. There are several of them, and they don’t all need to serve you, but up they stand in deference. There’s a little lodge with a man ready to take your stuff, and as I hand over my puffy coat, I usually make sure to hide its holes with dignity. On my back, I can feel the eyes of the remaining staff, staring, waiting… Honestly, it feels awkward, but maybe this is something one gets used to. Once done, I dart past them, muttering something polite, and I can feel them landing back onto their seats behind me like robots.

In the ‘basement’—there should be another name for this; it doesn’t do it justice— you find what you’d expect from a fitness club: locker rooms, a gym with machines, etc. There’s also an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Mind-blowingly there’s also an actual fully equipped bar. In fact, on the little tables lining the long chairs in the swimming pool area, there are little buttons to summon the bar staff so they can bring you an overpriced cocktail or even some food from the hotel (I don’t want to know how much that costs). Moving into the locker room, you discover something new, something you hardly suspect. The super-rich are just a different kind of people; they have a different notion of what constitutes routine pleasure. Let me explain.

Maybe I’m an individualist, but I sort of like handling my own underwear. In this locker room, some of the members walk in with an air of importance, flanked by a member of staff who then proceeds to empty their bag for them with deference and hang everything on small hangers in their lockers. Also, incredibly, they line up all their little thingies (razors, brushes, you name it) on a specially provided little towel on the seat next to them. This blows my mind. The guy is literally getting fully naked while a smiling butler stands there like a board and hands him his swimming trunks from his bag. I wonder how much extra they have to pay to get this service. I’m also vaguely disappointed that they don’t fan them with a palm leaf in between the dressing-up moments or pick up their nose hairs with golden tweezers (okay, maybe they do that actually—I didn’t go to the beauty salon).

Anyway, usually, in the locker room, I don’t let myself feel intimidated (even when members pass little banknotes to the staff as a thank-you for their subservience). I’m a member too, goddammit! My stuff doesn’t go all tidy onto hangers but gets balled up in the top area, and I exit the locker room as fast as I can. The reason for this is that the lads just like being naked. They don’t just get naked and switch to whatever outfit is needed. No, they walk around naked, go to the mirrors naked, have phone calls naked, and chat with each other for a while fully naked. I guess it’s a thing. It sort of shows that you don’t care—you’re tough, you’re not shy (or French). As a visual person, I can tell you that this leaves quite the impression on me.

But onwards to the gym area and the myriad of complicated machines available! I’m dressed in my worst t-shirt (why sweat in my nice ones?), mismatched socks, and the cheapest sneakers I can find at the mall. In that space, everyone is working out hard. But it’s also a bit of a surreal area. In French, we say ‘La cour des miracles’ when a place is either badly frequented (could be the case here, who knows?) or simply very eccentric—a bit surreal. Well, that gym room has that distinct feel. For starters, these guys don’t just go exercise—they take private coaching sessions. So, as I’m breathing like a walrus on my elliptical bicycle and loathing myself for all that I’ve smoked and eaten over the past few years, I see a procession of men and women, flanked by super coaches, going through the drills. There’s the bloke who yells like he’s having wild sex as he pumps iron—sharing the experience with everyone, thank you very much. There’s the lady walking around with her coach and her BODYGUARD. Yes, the big lad follows closely as she does her fitness. Actually, he looks at everyone—and me in particular—with suspicion. As if I’d be able to get into any form of physical violence while agonizing on the treadmill…. There’s also the pensioner who takes some kind of boxing one-on-one session and hisses and grunts like a ninja warrior. And the list goes on…

After putting my body (and my brain) through such a brutal workout, I make my way back to the locker room—I don’t even see the hairy naked bodies anymore; I’m empty, I’m done. Time for a swim, time for a shower, but first… time for a trip to the hammam! Yes, the hammam—you read that right. Actually, there’s also a sauna in the male area, but everyone is always naked in there, so I avoid it. Sometimes I pass in front of the glass door, and some guy is standing right there, facing the door, fully naked, eyes closed, striking a power pose. I usually speed past when that happens. The hammam is for both men and women, so I’m protected from shocking visuals in there. However, some odd things still happen in the hammam for the super-rich.

Okay, for context, a hammam is a kind of sauna but wet. It’s full of steam, super hot, etc. You go in there, and you can barely breathe. You just sit down in a corner and sweat like a pig for a while before you can’t take it any longer and wobble out like a warm dumpling. Yet, in that clearly hostile environment, I see the lads doing some bizarre stuff. There’s this big elderly man for instance with a huge mustache, who likes planking on the central stone in front of everyone. I mean… I don’t usually plank at all—it’s quite hard, actually. I don’t think I’ll be doing much planking when I’m elderly either. But planking as an elderly person on a stone, at 140°F, while I struggle to breathe? I know I 100% will not do this.

So yeah, the hammam. I actually quite like it, but folks’ behavior blows my mind. I swear I’ve never seen, in a ‘normal people’ gym, folks leave taps open after themselves like I see in that place. This is something that triggers me somehow—Jesus, is it so hard to turn a tap OFF? A shower OFF? Do people need a valet to do that behind them as well? I find myself grudgingly turning taps off behind people in that place…. And for free!

One of the last things I usually do before leaving my oligarch fitness club is go for a little swim. There’s a large swimming pool, as I was saying, Olympic-sized. But that does not deter an oligarch from jumping and swimming into YOUR lane, even though there are free lanes next to it. Okay, I feel like I’m a pool lane extremist, but isn’t there an agreed-upon etiquette? Like, if there’s one free lane, the person is expected to go to that lane, no? It’s like on the train—if you’re alone in a carriage and there are 80 seats available, it would be weird for someone to come sit right next to you, right? Or am I crazy? Well, the oligarch doesn’t care. If they’ve laid eyes on YOUR lane, then you should be ready to make way—they will not budge.

After the swim, it’s time for a quick shower in what I shall call the spit room. Actually, this isn’t really only happening at the super-rich’s gym—I think it’s a male thing—but I’ll make a brave stand against it here today anyway. What is wrong with all these gentlemen’s throats? Everyone is clearing their throat and spitting in there like they’ve just been pepper-sprayed. I’m quietly trying to enjoy the expensive soap, trying to relax, but I suddenly feel surrounded by a herd of pterodactyls. It literally makes me self-conscious about my own throat hygiene. Like… I actually never thought of that area as needing such thorough cleaning before. But no, I shall resist that urge. I shall remain non-dinosaur.

Oh well. As you can see, I still have a lot to learn to make it as an oligarch—quite clearly... Well, especially when it comes to the money aspect of it, of course. But I’m sure my loyal Substack subscribers will fund my ascent to oligarch status! (Hint: Subscribe now, and I’ll name a running tap after you.) But this whole thing is, for me, quite a new experience… a glimpse into the world of people living on the same planet as us but in a parallel universe somehow.

I still have months left on my subscription, so I don’t rule out turning full pterodactyl along the way. Maybe one day, I too will stand naked in the sauna, eyes closed, exuding power. Maybe I’ll have my gym bag carried for me, my post-workout towel ceremoniously placed at my feet. Maybe I’ll even leave the odd tap running—just because I can. But for now, I remain a mere infiltrator, reporting back from the gilded trenches.

Stay tuned.