Why I Don't Work At The Hostel (Or First Time Getting Robbed In Costa Rica) Part 2

I awoke before 8 o'clock.  My flight was leaving just after noon and our personal hostel taxi was already scheduled to pick me up at 10am.  My suitcase and guitar were already packed.  I had no memory of packing them last night.

I wondered why I would have packed in such a rush when suddenly all of the events from the previous night rushed back to me: the motorcycle chase, the man with the knife, the glint of a gun, the stolen backpack and the final frantic sprint to the door that ended with me bursting in the door screaming and receiving a blank and emotionless stare from Jon, the hostel owner.  I didn't have much hope for him, but I thought that today we could talk about it.

All of my anger and adrenaline from the assault disappeared overnight.  That morning I felt small, scared and confused.  Something had changed inside of me, and I knew I would never feel right in Costa Rica anymore.  I wished my flight back to the USA had been one-way, as I had no desire to return to Castle Tam or Costa Rica.  I needed a morning shower to clear my head so I walked from my room across the small lobby to the nearest shared bathroom; the same lobby where I had burst in angry last night.  I stepped into the bathroom, took off my shirt, and then realized in my bewildered, dazed state that had forgotten to bring my towel with me.  I still had my shorts on, and looked back into the lobby to see if any guests were around.  It was clear so I quickly dashed to my room for a towel.  With towel in hand, I returned to the bathroom.

At that moment Jon walked through the lobby.  Unlike the previous night, he did not stare at me blankly, but came straight up to me with a grim, dark look on his face.  He stopped no more than a foot in front of me, and said in a controlled but unmistakably angry tone:

"Why aren't you wearing a shirt inside?"

I was unfazed.  After months of virtual silence between the two of us save for updates on new guests, he had not stopped me in the middle of the lobby for a military lecture on appropriate dress code.  Whatever bad blood had been building up between us over the past few months was about to be spilled at that moment.  Oddly, although we were seething, we still stayed professional and kept our volume down so as not to disturb guests.  Our conversation was over a year ago, but I remember it well.

"Oh, C'mon! This is not about my shirt!"

He snapped, "What was all that noise about last night??"

"I was robbed right outside the door last night by two men! No more than 50 meters from the door.  I was running inside from a motorcycle!"

There was a pause.  He was ready to explode but continued in the same tone.

"Look, I know you had a bad night, but this is a place of business, and you don't do that."

I thought to myself: Bad night...  

Bad night!?  A bad night is having a little argument with your girlfriend.  A bad night is drinking a little too much and getting sick.  A bad night is watching you football team lose after being ahead.  A bad night is not being held up by two men with a knife and a gun, getting robbed and watching your life flash before you eyes.  I didn't if he had been in the Navy.  Military training doesn't mean you can't show some humanity.  I hissed through closed teeth:

"Look, when you have knife in your face and someone's threatening your life, let me know if you'll be calm."

Jon didn't respond, and I didn't wait for his response.  I walked past him towards the bathroom.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him turning after me with his hand raised up in a clenched fist.  For a moment, I thought we might brawl right there in the lobby of Castle Tam; but he turned back and marched the opposite direction through the lobby.  I finished my shower and returned to my room to wait the final 20 minutes in silence before the taxi driver arrived.

I had one suitcase and my guitar for the short Christmas trip back to the USA.  I briefly considered gathering my other bags and leaving Castle Tam forever, never to return again; but my stubbornness told me to wait and decide when I returned in January.  I was still by title the "manager" and had a set of hostel keys, access to the safe and the passwords to our online resources such as email, website and booking engines.  Surely Jon wouldn't change the locks or passwords while I was gone...

Why had things turned out so bad?  I thought on it later. When we started the place in April we planned to make it a Costa Rica success and I would carry our legacy on to a partner hostel in Europe.  Now I felt almost as unsafe inside these walls as I did outside where I got robbed.  Instead of support from a friend, I received more aggression and someone who seemed to think it was my fault for getting robbed.

The taxi was here.  I needed to go home and forget Castle Tam and Costa Rica for a while.

First Time Getting Robbed in Costa Rica (Or Why I Don't Work At The Hostel)

(This is not a happy, whimsical Costa Rica "Pura Vida" story about feeding Capuchin monkeys on the sun-kissed beaches of Manuel Antonio National Park.  If you're not interested, stop reading now.)

Things were getting worse between the owner and I at Castle Tam Hostel.  All forms of joking, story-telling and pleasantries had ceased in the past few months.  Our conversations were reduced to strictly business and I felt an intense, growing tension that was sure to break soon.  I knew something would happen, but I did not expect it to happen in the form of our hostel's first weapon assault, which involved me.

I was looking for a way out of the hostel since I had returned from Europe.  I had found it in an interview with Berlitz Language School on the day before I was to return to the USA for a short Christmas holiday.  The interview went well, and I was asked to start training for a part-time teacher position in January when I returned to Costa Rica.  That evening I celebrated the job interview over dinner with a French friend of mine who had recently moved out of the hostel and into a house in the same neighborhood.

We dined on home-cooked food and shared a bottle of wine to toast the Christmas season.  Spirits were high and I felt elated that if things somehow didn't work out at the hostel, at least I had a Plan B.  It was almost 11 o'clock and I knew I had to return to be ready for my flight the next day.  Safety is always an issue in Costa Rica, and my friend asked if I would need a taxi to take me back.

I thought about it for awhile.

She said the few blocks up to the main road were quiet but there were security guards along the way.  I generally didn't worry about San Pedro at night.  The hostel owner and I felt secure that the San Pedro university neighborhood was safe compared to many other places in San Jose.  It was part of the reason he chose the place, and we told guests that it was safe to walk in the area.  I left my friend's house feeling apprehensive but made it to the main road in 5 minutes.  I passed the familiar 'Mas X Menos' supermarket, the BAC Bank and the still-pounding music from the university bars of 'Calle de La Amargura.'  In another 10 minutes I was turning of the main road onto the last 3 blocks to the hostel.  One left, one right, one more left and I was there.

It was just after 11 o'clock and I saw Castle Tam's big green and black sign at the end of the street.  I was home and felt safe.  I slowed my pace a little.

There was shouting behind me.  It took a second to realize they were shouting at me.  I turned and saw a small motorcycle with two men approaching me.  They had masks on. 

Years of living in St. Louis and Chicago, plus all the Latin America horror stories, told me what was happening.  I started running.  The hostel door was no more than 100 meters away.  I pulled my keys out while shouting "Help!" and "Socorro!" in the hopes that someone would hear me and open the gate.

The motorcycle outpaced me quickly.  Fortunately San Jose has extremely deep street gutters made for the massive deluges of the rainy season.  If not for that the motorcycle could have easily driven on the sidewalk in order to cut me off in front of the gate.  Instead it pulled up right beside me.  One of the men jumped off and pulled out a large knife.  He began yelling, "Hijo de puta! Damelabolsa, hijodeputa!" To my own surprise, I turned directly at him and started yelling in his face.

He looked surprised and stepped back a little.  I certainly had no intention of fighting him, but angry adrenaline took me and turning on him allowed me to keep him in my sight as I continued running -sideways- towards the hostel door.  Why was I acting this way?  Rather then feeling outright fear, I was enraged that the first time I should be robbed happened after a life of far more dangerously stupid situations and on the last night before returning to the warmth of my family for Christmas.  Without thinking, I heard myself shouting in Spanish at the guy, "No, no, no! Que queres conmigo?  No tengo nada!"  I also forget that at 6'1", my above-average American stature makes me tower over most average Latinos.  This thief only came up to my chest.  Perhaps it was the adrenaline rush, but now my would-be attacker appeared as scared as I was.  He stayed a few feet back from me and started running sideways too in a mirror image of my trajectory.  I kept an eye on his knife as we continued our ridiculous crab-walking dance for a few more meters toward the Castle Tam sign.

Meanwhile my brain was processing what he was yelling in Spanish.  I have a fairly good propensity for speaking Spanish, but my listening skills (as in English) are a little slower.  "Hijodeputa!" was of course "Sonafabitch," which any basic Spanish speaker knows.  In any foreign language we always desire to learn the dirty words first...motherfuckers.  "Damelabolsa!" eventually translated as, "Gimmethebag!"

I forget that I had a small backpack.  It was a silly thing; one of those little backpacks with strings for straps that barely carries more than 2 books.  It was a Captain Morgan promotional item I had acquired from Mr. Captain Morgan during a night out with hostel guests at a bar.  All it carried were my written notes from my Europe Trip and some books, but the robbers probably thought that I, being a stupid white gringo, was carrying a valuable laptop computer inside.

The hostel gate was very close.  Surely someone inside would hear me and come outside, thereby scaring off my attackers.  The guy with the knife was still at a safe distance yelling, "Damelabolsa!" But he was closing in, and I started feeling afraid.  Then I noticed the driver of the motorcycle reaching into his pocket.

It was something dull and gray that glinted a little.  My first thought was "GUN!"  Although I might have a chance against one small guy with a knife, taking a bullet at close range would mean certain death.

I threw my backpack directly at the knife-man's face.  He stumbled backwards into the motorcycle and I bolted the last few meters to the gate with my keys in hand.  I unlocked the gate quickly, slammed it behind me and briefly turned around to see my assailants.  They were emptying the backpack and shouting in frustrated disappointment that they had found no valuable laptop inside: "Hijo de puta! Hijodeputa, gringo!"  They accelerated the motorcycle in my direction, but I was already inside the interior hostel door.

I burst inside the hostel, screaming in anger and looking for blood.  My words streamed out in a mix of Spanish and English that sound like neither language, "Me robaron-they robbed me-hijodefuckin!" Milastnoche-this hadto-pasarme. Noquiero-estarinetsefuckingcountryCostaRica-jamasnomore."

Our Mexican employee was on the lobby sofa making moves on a cute Mexican guest.  He got up and tried to calm me down while the girl ran away from the raging gringo.  He told me sit down and my blood-lust anger quickly subsided into fear and despair.  My clenched fists relaxed and I finally noticed how much my hands were shaking.  In my blind rage, I had also unknowingly kicked the trashcan across the room.  I was still babbling in Spanglish when the owner came out of his room.

He looked at me in a daze.  He didn't say a single word.  He walked to the reception computer, checked his email and silently returned to his room.  Not. A. Single. Word.

I couldn't believe it.

My anger returned immediately and I was shouting in Spanglish, "See...this is why I can't work here...He doesn't even ask what happened, if things are OK or should I call the police...all he gives a fuckaboutismoney. We used to be cool...How the fuck can you work in hospitality he doesn't care about people....!?!?"

I trailed off... I needed to sleep and see if maybe things would be better in the morning.

They didn't improve.  What happened the next day ended my time at Castle Tam Hostel.



      

There Is Costa Rican Craft Beer: Costa Rica Craft Brewing in Cartago

What do I have to do to get a good craft beer in Costa Rica?

I've spent the past few years becoming a good beer geek in the United States.  My 2 years in Europe was fine for drinking good beer, but Costa Rica put that to a stand still.  As anyone who has been in Costa Rica for more than one day knows, it's pretty much Imperial or Pilsen everyday.  One of Costa Rica's brews, Rock Ice, even got on a list of "Worst Beers On Earth."  It looks pretty desperate.

What I found was "Costa Rica Craft Brewing" in Cartago.  This is possibly the most awkward, obvious name for a microbrewery in existence, but it serves a purpose.  The name clearly communicates to any gringo traveler or American expat beer nerd that this is not just another yellow, watery, mass-produced Central American beer.  To avoid typing out this ungainly name, I shall now refer to the brewery by their initials, CRCB.

CRCB's flagship brews are Libertas, a light, fruity "tropical ale," and Segua, a sweet, hoppy red ale.  Libertas caters more to the local Costa Rica market, which typically finds big beers like IPAs and Russian Imperial Porters to be too strong.  Segua is for American Hopheads who need a fix in Costa Rica because they can't find any IPAs.  CRCB also has seasonal beers which show up on tap every 3 or 4 months around the country.  You can find draft and bottle locations at their website: http://beer.cr/   Additionally there are specialty beers which they only have at the brewery itself.

My goal on a rainy Saturday in October was to locate the CRCB brewery and buy a few dozen bottles to sell (illegally) at the hostel I managed.  If you don't have a car, take a bus from San Jose to central Cartago.  After searching for a local bus to the "Tejar de El Guarco" neighborhood, you either walk a mile or take a taxi.  The specific address is: "800 mts oeste de RITEVE El Tejar de El Guarco" but as I've discussed in a previous post, directions in Costa Rica are meaningless.  Just call them first: (506) 2573-3724.

I went with two lovely Quebecois girls from the hostel who were in Costa Rica representing their clothing company, Poze, for a 'fashion bicycle tour.'  I'm still not sure what this means, but I got to take lots of pictures of two good-looking, French-Canadian girls.  Oh-la-la, eh?

Our first bus dropped us off in downtown Cartago, so we spent some time checking out the historic ruins of Santiago Apostal Parish.  Technically they aren't ruins, but were in mid-construction in 1910 when an earthquake struck.  The Costa Ricans figured - eh, Pura Vida - we'll get around to finishing them, and 100 years later...  The earthquake is the source of much myth; one 'telenovela-style' story says the priest who helped found the Santiago Parish fell in love with his non-clerical brother's wife.  God sent the earthquake as his punishment for being unfaithful.

After (literally) jumping around on the ruins for awhile, we found the bus to the rural Tejar neighborhood where CRCB is located.  With rain impeding our progress, we opted for a taxi down the country road and actually drove by the brewery once before finding it.  I don't know about the Quebecois girls' sentiments, but I felt as if I had arrived at an oasis in the middle of a beer desert.

CRCB, however is not a desert.  It is officially the coldest place in Costa Rica due to sub-zero refrigeration used in the building to maintain stable beer fermentation temperatures.  We were given a Spanglish tour by friendly Juan and one of the brewers, Stefan, a young half-German, half-Tico who favored the German side.  After showing the us the tanks, grains and bottle-works, we finished the short tour with the most important part - tasting.























Cartago is surprisingly more insanely, religiously-conservative than most of Costa Rica.  What this means for CRCB is that the provincial law prohibits you from opening bottles of beer in the brewery!  You are allowed to drink three tap samples, but you can't actually enjoy a full beer pint there...unreal.  The nice part of the tasting was getting to try a Blueberry Stout which was only available at the brewery.  When I realized I couldn't drink bottles or pints there, I attempted to abuse my sampling privileges then quickly got out of there with a 24 case of Libertas and Segua I had purchased for $50.

We briefly stopped at the Cartago City Market so the girls could go shopping for random, handicraft crap.  I wandered aimlessly around the market with my box of beer, listening to the Cartago rain fall, and savoring the moment I would return to the hostel and open the first hoppy Segua bottle.

DULTfest Regensburg: The Other German Beer Festival

Oktoberfest, Munich

Yes, we've all heard of it and everyone wants to go.  That's the problem.  Everyone - and I mean everyone - goes.  Unless you go alone and arrive early in the morning, expect to walk around for 2 or 3 hours until a bench opens up.  I only found a spot at night by virtue of wearing my "Baracktoberfest" Schlafly Beer t-shirt.  Some Americans recognized Obama's smiling presidential face on my shirt and invited me to squeeze in on the bench.

DULTfest, Regensburg

Have you heard of it?  If you don't want to fight crowds and wait hours for a delicious German beer, there are hundreds of other smaller Beerfests around the country.  By sheer chance my hitchhiking trip through Regensburg in August coincided with DULTfest.  I randomly chose Regensburg, but it is a scenic UNESCO World Heritage Site which is well worth passing through for more than just the beer festival.  This is truly Bavaria.

Here's something you never see at Oktoberfest - an empty beer tent.  I found Brook Lane Hostel and spent the morning recovering from my nightmare hitchhiking trip from Austria.  After a brief rest I set off for DULTfest around 2pm.  The pictures are courtesy of Romy, a nice Bavarian girl I met at the hostel whose photography skills are far better than mine.  Thanks to her talent, I look almost professional even with a comically large beer and a massive wiener in my hand (*snicker*).

I was sober at the time this picture was taken.  I only spent a brief time at the festival sampling some local beers and Bavarian food before returning to the hostel to sleep some more.  When I awoke Romy was gone, but a few new guests had arrived.  A wandering Czech who was working in Germany and a young Irish business student became my drinking buddies for the evening.

The night progressed as one would expect at a beer festival.  We visited the 6 different tents and settled on the largest based on the fact it was hosting a curious sport where participates had to climb up the tent's tallest central pole in order to win...you guessed it, beer.  We placed bets on the pole climbers, and after drinking several liters and bullshiting travel stories, we returned to the hostel considerably drunker than before.  Regensburg was a brief, but perfect way to end my Eurotrip 2011.