"Teacher, Do You Like Our Bitches?": Teaching English In Costa Rica

A year of decadent, dangerous Costa Rica hostel management is over.  I ungraciously return to a quiet life of English Teaching to support my traveling/drinking addiction.  I had already spent two strange years teaching in Thailand and Slovakia before, so it had the feeling of accidentally bumping into an old ex.  The familiarity feels good at first, but after a few moments you remember why you broke up in the first place.

Teaching English abroad is an exercise in humility.  You realize how little you know about the very language you've been speaking since you were a child.  You pathetically try to correct students' grammar errors and questions without screaming out: "Dammit, because I speak English, that's why!!!!"  You have to keep a straight face when students pronounce "beaches" as "bitches."  Your local coworkers quietly resent you because they had to put in years of education to get the same job you got simply by being a... dah dah dahdah: NATIVE SPEAKER!!!! (cue applause, shouts of, USA! USA! 'Murica! 'Murica!)

If you don't take students' errors too seriously; however, it can be a very funny job.  And I do mean funny...not fun.  The ESL teachers know what I'm talking about.
  
My interview with Berlitz, which coincidentally happened the same day I got robbed, went well and I started training the day after I left Castle Tam Hostel.  Ever the cynic, by the time I'm one day into training I already see problems with teaching in Costa Rica, as compared to Thailand and Slovakia.  My salary is lower than it was in both of these countries.  Given that Costa Rica has the highest cost-of-living for Central America, this means I'm sitting above the poverty line, but still sitting at home for two weeks doing nothing until payday to make rent.  Remember that alcohol factors importantly into my budget.

My awkward work schedule means 4 hours of teaching at 6 in the morning, followed by a 6 hour empty gap, then 4 hours of teaching until 9 at night...Saturday mornings included.  Even though Berlitz is an international language school, none of the administrative staff speaks English, and it's only by virtue of speaking Spanish that I'm able to wade through the paperwork involved with getting hired.  Fortunately, I am part of the government healthcare system, but that is not exceptional since Costa Rica has a social healthcare system anyway.

Berlitz is a giant, global American-based company, which is its justification for charging students an arm and a leg for 'professional language services.'  Unfortunately it's encumbered by local, self-serving Costa Rica-based labor practices, so all of this money is rarely used in a professional way.  My teacher training was a perfect example of this; two weeks of American-style corporate jargon, pretty colored pamplates, fancy, scientific-based teaching theories and the official Berlitz Method©®℗ - which did nothing to prepare me for the real classroom.  I've had 2 years of teaching experience previous to Costa Rica, so I spent most of the training catching up on sleep and spitting out funny anecdotes from my previous jobs.  The new teachers thought I was a genius.  I felt like Bill Clinton at a grand testimony defining the meaning of the word "is".  Bullshit taken to an art form (he was a teacher too.)

The training did have free pizza and soda.

At the end of two weeks, Berlitz assigned me a 40-hour work week at their San Pedro Equus center then promptly forgot about me.  I was disconcerted to find out that my manager was from England -since everyone thinks British English is better than American English- but when I saw his blue scorpion tattoo, missing teeth and bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey prominently displayed on the shelf, I felt strangely comforted.  When I walked into the teacher's office, I was surprised to hear only the sounds of Spanish.  Isn't this an English language center?

The next year became a mire of forced Berlitz Method©®℗ lesson planning, 5am workdays, bad grammar mistakes and intravenous coffee injections.  Classes were full of nervous, awkward long silences and freakish, blank stares followed by bursts of incomprehensible sentences with comical Hispanic accents.  It felt like watching the old Cheech & Chong sketches, but the students weren't stoned.  I wished I was.

The first 3 months sucked horribly.  After that the wounds healed, leaving just a dull, numb feeling that only hurt when it rained.  It rains a lot in Costa Rica.

I won't write much about the year I worked at Berlitz.  I'll leave that to the studious ESL teachers who take their jobs seriously.  Teaching paid the bills (barely), and I made some really good friends from working there who frequently shared the same hangovers with me.

And now I know the most beautiful bitches in Costa Rica are in Guanacaste.


Some People Came Here Because They Thought There Would Be Practical Advice For Teaching In Costa Rica.  HaHaHa.  If You Want To Work On The Beach, Don't Expect To Get Paid.  Here's Some Links For Schools (With Salaries) In Beautiful San Jose:

Berlitz: http://berlitz.co.cr/

Prolanguage: http://www.prolanguage.org/

Centro Cultural Costarriccense: http://www.centrocultural.cr/

Idioma Internacional: http://www.idiomacr.com/

Intensa: http://www.intensa.com/

Universal de Idiomas: http://www.ingles.co.cr/

Universidad Latina: http://www.ulatina.ac.cr/

Believe it or not, if you have any questions about teaching in Costa Rica, I will be happy to answer them.


         

The Ružinov Drinking Hill Concert

I don't like to write for tourists.  I wrote this for my friends.

The concert took place inside Espresso Planetka pub.  But that's not where the party was.

My musician friend, Robo Patejdl, and I hosted a great hour-long concert with many old and new friends on that warm August night in Bratislava, Slovakia.  After that we had to relocate.  Anyone who has been out with me in that neighborhood will tell you that bars, restaurants and houses that we drink at are all just filler.  The heart and soul of our Ružinov parties is Drinking Hill.

Where are the other pictures?

I don't remember most of the concert, since I'm always in a nervous, panicked blur before I perform.  I do remember people taking pictures and filming, but for some reason only one picture has surfaced from that night.  It's my skinny ass...probably singing Lady Gaga for the millionth time.  If anyone has more pictures from that night, please send them.  Deki moc!

Rather than try to recall the events of the particular concert, I'm just going to wax nostalgic about Ružinov Drinking Hill. *sigh*  People accuse me of many faults: excessive drinking, womanizing, fear of commitment, inability to grow-up, being easily distracted...

Uhhh, where was I?  My worst addiction would be nostalgia.  Nostalgia for places, experiences and, most importantly, people.  I constantly think of the good old days with friends and how I can relive them. Traveling feeds this addiction.  Somewhere down the next road is something better and more exciting than what I have already experienced.  Every time I return to Ružinov I hope that the next party will be better than the previous ones...

Here is nostalgia at its worst.  In pictures, this the legend of Ružinov Drinking Hill:

First we gather lots of alcohol.  Russians are famous for their drinking, but their Slavic brothers in general (of course Slovaks) have an amazing capacity for drink.  In the United States I'm called an alcoholic.  In Slovakia I'm a "weak bitch."

"Alcohol Poisoning!"

Czech-Slovak Beer served American House Party Style

Bring lots of food and start grilling in the park.  This would seem logical to any American (ahem 'Murican).  However big, American-style outdoor barbecues are not a part of Slovak culture...yet.

Parky a Paprika

The "front yard" of my Ruzinov flat

Take the party back inside your Communist-era panelka flat.  Since barbecues aren't normal in Slovakia, the police often saw it as a danger and would break up the party.  Or the weather would suddenly change.  This only encouraged the bad behavior.

The Smoking Section

The Toast with Fancy 'Murican Imported SOLO Cups

Take the party back OUTSIDE the apartment.  Slovakia has a law that prohibits loud noise in buildings after 10pm (22:00).  Around 9:50pm we had to stage a massive exodus for our drunken troops.  A little hill in an adjacent park became our refuge since it possesses a magical ability to hid people from the police...

10:00pm - Ready to Begin the Drinking Hill Voyage

Heading to The Secret Rendezvous Point with Buckets of Beer

Party at Ruzinov Drinking Hill.  I can't tell you what happens at Drinking Hill...most likely because I'm too black-out drunk to remember.  There was usually a Slovakian lady and a lot of alcohol involved.  Everybody who has been there has their own debil story about the people they met or the stupid things they did.  All I know is at some point the next morning I would return there after some wild voyage around Bratislava's bars to collect evidence of the party.  There was never much left...

One Lonely SOLO Cup Is All That's Left

I miss these times and the people who were there.  Bratislava, Slovakia is not a place that most people put on their Top Ten travel lists, but for me it's one of the best.  And it's all thanks to the people who are there.    This song is for you guys.  I played it at the Ružinov Concert and I will play it the next time I see you, because I always gotta feelin'...

Nis Fortress Nightlife

Nis fortress walls. Disco to the left.

A day exploring Crveni Krst concentration camp and climbing Bubanj Hill to see a mass execution site can depress the average tourist.  Serbia has a simple, powerful solution to cure this depression: coffee.  Or if that's not strong enough: rakia.  The Balkans can easily convert a sworn coffee-hater into a coffee addict (and potential rakia addict.)

He's sad because the Mafia made him into a disco

Coffee and rakia are two likely reason you will visit Nis Fortress in Serbia.  Nis Fortress is not so much a historical site as it is an organic extension of the city center.  There is no charge to enter and it has been left open to the public to function as a decadent city park.  Local Mafia took advantage of the lenient rules and built a large disco-cafe, Klinika, directly on the fortress stones.

Some people would say it's a tacky, tasteless way to deface a historical monument, but it sure is a fun place to party.  If you don't care to join the beautiful people dancing in the open-air disco, just buy a few liters of Jelen beer at the nearby kiosk, grab your friends and dance on the fortress walls overlooking the disco until sunrise.  You can still hear the pounding music and watch the sun rise from the fortress walls.


I experienced Nis' nightlife for the first time in 2010 and loved it so much that I had to return in 2011 to do it again.  If it were possible I would return to Southern Serbia every summer for partying.  As I had mentioned in an earlier post, Balkan people's flair for living rivals any typical Latino's "vida loca" attitude.  Perhaps due to the Balkans proximity to Asia, there's also a magical Eastern mysticism there that Latin America lacks.  While the world changes, The Balkans seems trapped in a time bubble that remains the same every year.  This night I experienced could have been in 2010, 2011, 2012 or any year...you decide...

I was Couchsurfing with some friends I had met from the previous summer.  I had the good fortune that summer to surf with my friend when he had 2 nice Bosnian girls surfing with him at the same time.  When I meet the girls, they told me (teasingly) that they hated Americans.  Yeah right...  What started as teasing hate over dinner and drinks ended up as love (?) by the time we had arrived at Nis Fortress later that night.

My Serbian friend and I are sensitive modern men, so we cooked a lovely dinner for the Bosnian girls.  After much debate of USA-Balkan politics, foreign food, counterculture (and beer) one of the girls and I ended up kissing in the moonlight in Nis Fortress on that hot summer night.  She fascinated me for being what I wasn't.  She was a wild, dancing, free-spirited hippie who was an expert fire-thrower.  I had my guitar and watched her mesmerizing fire-dance as I sang on the top of the Nis Fortress walls.  The music from Klinika disco below us provided an odd trance accompaniment.

Unfortunately, there were many people partying in the park, including several other beautiful Balkan girls.  I became very distracted.  Dare I say Balkan girls are one of my weaknesses, and a Serbian medical student caught me that at that moment.  While the Bosnian girl was showing off her fire-throwing skills on the fortress stones, I began chatting with the student.  Many Southern Serbian girls get pretty excited when an American guy with a guitar shows up in their town.  I'm a complete liar if I said I don't take full advantage of the situation, and I love my Serbian friends for telling me this.  They are some of the few people I know who will tell me to my face what a complete 'American asshole/fucker/sonofabitch' I am sometimes.

...America, Fuck Yeah!

An "American Fucker" in Nis, Serbia

Rakia and beer flowed freely in the fortress park, and people drifted in and out of my memory.  We danced, drank, sang, reveled and eventually the Serbian and I left for a quieter place.  I didn't notice until the sun was rising what had happened.  The Bosnian girl wasn't happy to find out I had changed allegiances and was in a rage.  When I'm traveling, I can be the naughtiest American asshole.

The Bosnian and I returned to our shared Couchsurfer place in the early hours of the morning.  She was angry and refused to even touch me even though we had to share a bed that night.  Now what do I do?

Beer Pong 101 for Ukrainians

What?

You thought I was going spend my last day in Lviv waxing nostalgic about the beauty of the culture and the ephemeral feelings of the city, blah, blah, blah....?  As a cultural ambassador from the United States, I feel it is my duty to introduce the world to our vast amount of drinking games.

Drinking games are everywhere, but only the USA has managed to make them into physically demanding activities that often leave the competitors passed out; both due to physical exhaustion and alcoholic consumption.

"You Americans is different. We just drink the beer to get drunk. No games."

"We're a competitive cultural.  You see all the largest, most successful companies in the world are from the United States: Microsoft, IBM, Walmart, McDonalds, Facebook..."

"Mmmm.  Is true. How do you play?"

I was using my US business school education to rationalize playing beer pong.  It was one of my more elegant pieces of bullshit but it worked.  After buying a few large liter bottles of Ukrainian beer and acquiring some plastic cups, I had assembled a team of Retro Hostel guests, friends and staff who were curious.  America, Fuck Yeah.

Other than regional variations (based on what University you went to) the basic rules of Beer Pong are quite well known to all Americans, so I won't waste time explaining them.  The difficulty in the Ukraine was the logistics.  The Ukraine -and Europe in general- does not have those big, beautiful red SOLO cups that form a perfect basket for ping-pong balls.  We had to settle for smaller, dull clear plastic cups.  Such were the issues:


1. Inexperienced players who have no idea how to play
2. Smaller cups with less area to aim providing a greater challenge for beginners
3. Vast language barrier (fortunately alcohol usually fixes this)

For example, this guy couldn't even say, "hello," in English but that didn't prevent us from making a great start-up team.  Everytime we missed a shot he would yell and grab his head in a bizarre dance of agony.  Every time we made a shot he would high-five me and at times give me a big manly bear-hug while shouting at me in unintelligible Ukraine.  After 3 rounds we were leading the newly-found Retro Hostel Beer Pong League.



I couldn't have asked for a better and more dedicated team of rookies to coach.  The wild Ukrainian, a duo of Polacks and an African exchange student took to the game with enthusiasm.  The African in particular fought with a vengeance. He told me, "I will not stop playing until I have won against the 'professional'."

It took twelve rounds, but he finally beat me.  With my win streak broken, I conceded the game and everyone returned back to their regularly scheduled drinking activities.  I realized that I had to go to Romania at 2:30am.

The lovely Retro staff gave me some useful advice, namely, "The taxi trip is only about 35 Hrynia, but the taxi driver will tell you 70-80 Hrynia...because you are American."  The blond Veronika was particularly concerned with making sure this wouldn't happen.  I certainly listened, because its not everyday you meet hot Ukrainian cosplayers who like to dress up as Tekken characters.


Ukrainian cosplayers?  With sexy accents?

Awesome.  She didn't seem convinced that I could find enough guys in the USA who would help sponsor a plane ticket so that a tall, exotic, blond Ukrainian Nina Williams/Lili Rochefort would show up at the next Otakon or MAGfest....  Any sponsors?

  We bid our final farewells and I hopped in a taxi that the hostel called for me.  Veronika told the driver to charge me only 35 Hrynia, which he agreed to.  I asked if it was OK to pay with 100 Hrynia.  She confirmed that it was OK.  Secure with this knowledge, I jumped in the taxi and took the 10 minute trip.

When I arrived at the train station, the taxi driver 'conveniently' did not have change for 100 Hrynia.  I sat there and stared at him, wondering why I couldn't leave this fucking country without another scam.  After a 30-second staring standoff, the driver threw up his arms, got out of the taxi and gruffly placed my luggage on the street.  As with my previous experience with the staff in the Fashion Club, being an American asshole was the smarter option.

I have my luggage and I have my ticket to Romania and Bulgaria.  I successfully avoided being ripped off by another taxi driver.  Now all I need to do is exchange currency.  The gentleman at the currency counter is asleep, but what does it matter.   Nothing in the Ukraine is efficient anyway.

I have taken a little bit of the Ukraine with me and I have left a little bit of the USA with the Ukraine through our great cultural game of Beer Pong.

So what's the next step?

Flippy Cup.