Adventures at the YMCA

I try to swim a few times per week, and since the East Jerusalem YMCA is just a few blocks away, I've become a Y member for the first time in my life. It has been quite a learning experience, so I thought I'd share some of the more memorable adventures.
But before we get to the pool, here's some background on the YMCA in general. First of all, it is not pronounced as the acronym Y-M-C-A but as one word: "yeem-ka." (I assume this is why the Village People's hit single never caught on in the Middle East.)

Secondly, in the men's locker room, there's one room for boys and one room for men. I learned this through trial and error, along the way receiving some disapproving looks from passersby, as if I should have known better. I only caught on when the karate class upstairs let out, and I was suddenly surrounded by twelve ten-year-olds. One of them started a conversation: "You are American?"
"Yes," I said, trying to be an affable, friendly American. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes," he said, then looked right at me and said: "F### you." He and his friends started giggling; it seemed so funny to them that I doubted any of them knew the rudeness of the expression.
"Ha ha ha," I said. "That is a very bad word."
"Yes," he said and continued giggling. I have not been in the boys' room since. Fortunately, the mens' room is a much more civilized environment: if the men are cursing me, at least they have the decency to do it in Arabic!

Actually, everyone is really quite friendly, especially at the pool. Just this morning I was swimming my laps, and as I glided into the wall, a man grabbed my forearm. I looked up to face him and his friends who were smiling at me, and he asked: "Where are you from?" "Washington, DC," I said. (I usually find this easier than explaining that Baltimore is just north of DC, even though the Baltimoron inside me always wants to point out that we had a Washington Monument first.) "You are welcome," he said. I waited for more, but that was it. "Thank you," I said, then resumed swimming.

Such friendliness occurred last week in the steam room. A group of us were relaxing when all of the sudden one of the men turned over and lay flat on the marble bench, and another man started to give him a full body massage. No one seemed fazed by this, as if it were a regular feature of the steam room. Partway through, the masseuse looked up at me and said: "You are next?" Although my shoulders did feel a little tense, in general I try to avoid massages from strangers in the YMCA; I declined his offer.

Of course, it has not been all fun and games at the YMCA. When I asked for the pool schedule I was given this:

Of course, the coffee stain was my fault, but it's not like it was legible to me before I spilled my morning cup. The front desk lady kindly translated the main parts, stressing the mens' hours and women's hours. (They never mix in the pool.) When I arrived the next day to swim some laps, I think every Palestinian in Jerusalem was crammed into the pool. Indeed the pool is really more of a public bath than a lap pool: older men wade around the shallow end and hang their arms over the lane ropes. The only swimming occurs when one of them moves over to another conversation group. I decided to leave rather than navigate that teeming oasis, and after consulting the front desk lady, I learned the off-peak hours. But even at these times, there are a good number of waders. (The man who grabbed my arm today is a regular rope hanger.)

All in all though, the YMCA has been a fun place to meet some of the locals. Who knows: maybe one day I'll even get a massage!