Member-only story
Tattooed and Pierced Fellows in an Upscale London Hotel Gym
Not what I expected.
The year was 1995. My then-husband and I were on a business trip in London, staying in a spiffy, elegant hotel in Marylebone.
Make no mistake: the business was his, as always. I was the spouse, along for the ride, nothing to do but enjoy myself. Which was great — and I’ve written about this whole life elsewhere, if you want to know more.
Oh, sure, I made some gestures toward bringing along writing or something to work on in my ‘free time’ on our many trips; but I was really there for the adventure, the fine meals and finer wines, the shopping, the good life.
The nature of my husband’s business necessitated fancy banquets, late evenings in rich settings with far too much food and drink. Loads of fun; but I felt kind of sorry for my husband, who always had to get up early the next morning to put on his suit and participate in actual meetings about actual work-stuff. I tended to sleep off my hangover (as best I could) and then toddle out to the pool (if we were somewhere tropical) or to the hotel gym (if not), to sweat out the rest of the previous night’s excesses, and prepare myself for the excessive evening to come.
And so it was that I found myself entering this entirely empty hotel gym, in this spiffy hotel…
