The air in Beijing is better than it was a few years ago, but there are still weeks when it’s best to stay indoors most days, and this is one of them. There are fewer cyclists on the streets and the sidewalks are quieter than usual because even a short walk is enough to make your nose itch and your throat dry.
Until a few weeks ago I might have walked to the hotel across the street to swim in the large, cool, rarely crowded pool. Pool access comes with a gym membership which I joined earlier this year after a friend suggested I could do some structured exercises.
“Why don’t you join the old lady dancing at night?” he says.
These women were everywhere in Beijing: in parks, on street corners, or by the side of the road, moving in formation to a thrilling melody, sometimes under the tutelage of a strict, tabernacle, old man. I could see myself in the role but dancing wasn’t for me so my friend directed me to a hotel.
The gym is luxurious, with uniformed staff handing out fresh towels and bottled water, and a post-workout lounge offering free tea, juice, yogurt, berries, nuts and seeds. It’s run by a separate company from the hotel and it’s expensive but there are big discounts if you pay a year in advance and stay away during peak hours.
In the locker room one day I heard a voice approaching from the bathroom singing what sounded like a soulful ballad in a kind of Bel Canto with Chinese characteristics. The man continued to sing as he walked past me and opened the locker beside me, stopping beside him as he gave his musical peroration.
Her singing had filled the room and we were the only people in it, so I felt I should compliment her when she finished. We chatted, connected on WeChat, and used to go to the gym together.
He doesn’t exercise, sits on the mat looking at his phone most of the time and occasionally checks what I’m doing and tells me to try harder. When we’re done, we’ll go to the Mexican bar.
Last month when we both left, he texted me saying our gym had gone bankrupt, leaving us all drunk and we should find a new one. Members had created a WeChat group to discuss our compensation options, and by the time I joined, things were already heating up.
“Could you publish photos and other details of the criminals? These evil people cannot be prosecuted, they must be allowed to die,” wrote one woman.
“Craggers, robbers must be shot,” said another.
Some members agreed to meet at the hotel the following night and demanded that those who had paid in advance be given a refund or be allowed to continue using the gym until their membership expired. “When we go there, everyone has to control their emotions,” said one man. “We must not violate any law and no one must say that we are being unreasonable or accuse us of gathering and causing trouble.”
Prepaid cards are common in China for everything from hairdressers and laundries to gyms and restaurants, with businesses trying hard to persuade customers to pay as much up front as they can. The legal position is complex, and even if a customer has a clear right to a refund, they often find that the person they contracted with is not the rightful owner of the business.
After several weeks, the property developer that owns the hotel wrote members saying the gym operator had not paid rent in over a year and had been told to stop selling new memberships. “Under the guidance and advice of various government departments”, the developer said it “wants to assume more social responsibility and protect consumer rights”.
So the developer agreed to honor our contract after the new company took over management of the gym in early September. Meanwhile, the pool is closed for renovations that will take two months – just when we need it most.
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