Five Shitty Things No One Tells You About Costa Rica

Some travel website thought my rants about Costa Rica were worth publishing, because I was writing something different from the usual happy, smiling green tree frogs, cute tree sloths, "Pura Vida" bullshit.  I submitted one blog post; they published it, paid me, and I spent the money on a bottle of Flor De Caña Rum to celebrate my success.  

Not surprisingly, the post comments were split 50/50 between: "You wrote a well-researched, informative AND funny article," and "You're an ignorant asshole, gringo."  I responded to the negative comments in Spanish.

Following this, the website requested a write-up to be titled, Things Nobody Ever Tells You About Costa Rica.  This is the result.  Even though this article is a series of true stories, it must have scared them off, since I haven't heard from them yet, but my irritated Tweets prompted them to finally publish it.

Maybe you won't be offended by my Five Reasons Costa Rica Sucks (the real title,) Five Shitty Things No One Tells You About Costa Rica, an even better title they chose.  After reading it again, I decided to edit it and add more information in order to shut down the haters I expected to get.

Too late.  It got published before the additional edits.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway.   People today have Internet ADHD and just have the patience to read 140 character Tweets before making a well-informed, "Y U SUK, LOLZ" opinion.  Judging by the posts, most readers got halfway through the first paragraph of the article before writing profanity-filled, misspelled, Wikipedia-researched comments.  They vehemently defended Costa Rica's rose-tinted tourist wonderland image, and most assumed I was an ignorant redneck who hadn't traveled anywhere outside of the "First World."  Apparently, clicking on my blog link with 2 years worth of travel posts was too much effort...

Enjoy the complete version, with further edits if I ever feel motivated.
   

Article For Matador Network:

Everyone told me I live in "The Happiest Country In The World."  So why after 2 years in Costa Rica am I paranoid, depressed, alcoholic and ready to shoot the next person who calls me, my friend?  My concerns started before my flight had even landed at the haphazard concrete and steel structure they call Juan Santamaria International Airport.

I thought I would have a nice, quiet flight with an empty seat next to me.  Not quite.  Right as the last boarding call was announced, a sweaty, extremely hairy kid sporting a tie-dyed shirt and Birkenstocks rushed into the plane and slumped down next to me.  He gave off an odor of marijuana-tainted apathy, and most likely planned to live in some organic commune in the middle of the jungle with a ragtag bunch of other idealistic hippies who hate "the system," but ironically made enough money from it to escape.  After we took off, he pulled out a tinfoil-wrapped package and asked me in a conspiratorial tone, "Do you eat brownies...Y'know, special ones?" 

Mmm, tasty.

Going through customs always makes me paranoid.  Doing it with weed-induced altitude sickness makes me want to lash out at first sight of the menacing, gun-toting customs officers who greet me at the airport.  This dirty hippie gave me a fitting introduction to the many problems I would encounter while living in paradise.

1. Naive Tourists: Tourists like my tie-dyed friend hear many anecdotes praising Costa Rica as the veritable utopia of Latin America, a part of the world known more for drug trafficking, violent crime, kidnapping, and poverty.  They assume that if the travel industry calls it "The Switzerland Of Central America," then surely it must function as efficiently and safely as that little quasi-neutral European country.  I stepped out of Juan Santamaria International Airport with a hopeful smile, thinking that at the terminal exit there might be an easily visible, well-marked bus stop with regular buses to the San Jose city center.

Nothing.  Smelling my gringo scent, I was greeted by 524,003 short men with comical English offering me "very good prices" to San Jose.

2. What Public Transportation?: The taxi drivers were telling me there was no bus, the station was far away, it was too late and other such fanciful lies.  Gracias a Dios, I speak Spanish.  I found an honest person who directed me to the bus stop, which is hidden on the opposite side of the large parking garage.  There was no schedule.  Buses come every "20 minutes or so."  Eventually a bus took me to the central Alajuela-San Jose Bus Station.  

Notice I said "Alajuela" Bus Station.  San Jose does not have one, or two or even three central bus stations.  At the time of this writing, there are about 25 different stations and stops to various locations around the country.  Efforts have been made to centralize the transportation, but the greedy bosses who own the individual bus companies are not ready to give up their control so easily.  This usually means having to take a taxi from the Alajuela-San Jose Bus Station to another station in order to transfer to that bus to beautiful sun-kissed Malpais.

3. Taxi Vultures: Taxis are a necessary evil for tourists.  You do not have to find one; they will find you.  You can have fun negotiating prices with illegal "pirate taxis" but, like pirates, they are bloodthirsty and will rape and pillage you.  If you prefer riding legally, find a taxi that is red and has a clearly marked, inverted yellow triangle with black call numbers.  In local slang, the taxi meter machine is called La Maria.  Be sure to tell the driver to turn it on.  He will smile and commend you on your knowledge of Costa Rican tiquisimos, and later complain to his colleagues that some gringo knew this code word.

Taxi drivers do not even know their way around the city, or they pretend not to know when a tourist gets in the vehicle.  One night I went with my lovely blond French friend to a club called Mas Tequila in the San Pedro neighborhood where I lived.  I told the driver the address in Spanish: "200 Meters Southeast of the Flag Rotunda, Boulevard Dent, Plaza Antares."  He drove around the Flag Rotunda to Boulevard Dent then...drove right past it on the same road we came from:

"Hey! We just drove past Mas Tequila."

"No, no, no. It is in Barrio Dent."

"What? Uh, no.  We just came from Barrio Dent. Turn around.  This shouldn't be more than 3000 Colones"

"You aren't from here.  You probably don't know."

"I've lived here for one year and I work in San Pedro neighborhood.  I eat lunch at Plaza Antares."

"What?  You don't believe me??"

He angrily pulled the vehicle over and stepped out.  He went back to the trunk, and reached in to get...something.  I doubt it was tequila.  At this point my blond French friend jumped out of the taxi and started apologizing to the driver.  Her sexy French-accented Spanish relaxed him for a moment.

Ooh la la.  I slammed a rojo (1000 Colones) on the passenger seat then walked away before it got complicated.

   

4. The "Green Season": Why take taxis?  Well, out of the 12 months of the year in Costa Rica, it's raining for approximately 15 of those months.  In the tourist industry, this period is called the "green season," because "never-ending-depressing-rainy-season" doesn't sell as well, and India already owns the legal copyright on "monsoon season."  Taxis are the best way to avoid getting soaked if you visit Costa Rica during any month that isn't named January.

On the plus side, hotel rates are cheaper during the "green season," which is great as you will be spending most of your vacation in them.

  

5. But There's No Military, People Are Peaceful?:  There's another good reason to take taxis.  It's safer than walking the streets after nightfall.  I come from St. Louis, an American city which twice won the dubious award for "Most Dangerous City In The USA," (We're #1!! Woo!!) and I have never been assaulted there.

Witnessed a murder scene in front of my apartment, yes.  Had my car broken into twice, yes.  Had a man offer to suck my dick for crack money - well, naturally.  But never physically assaulted.

During 2 years in happy Costa Rica, I was robbed twice: once with a knife, and another time with a gun.  The first time was expected, as it happened in San Jose, the urban capital city.  The second time was surprising, since it happened with another person on a road in the jungle on the outskirts of Puerto Viejo, a small, relaxed Caribbean coastal town - appropriately enough on my last night in Costa Rica.

This is nothing.  All my Costa Rican friends can outdo me with their own armed robbery stories.  They tell these stories as casually as the latest soccer scores between the big teams, Alajuelita and Saprissa.  One of my friends has been robbed 8 times in her brief 24 years.  This is why she buys the cheapest mobile phones; she expects them to disappear on a regular basis, like that left sock in the dryer.

Of course, nothing bad may happen to you in Costa Rica, especially if you take an all-inclusive, package tour where the worst thing that will happen is a wicked hangover due to an excess of poolside Piña Coladas.  For the rest of the normal backpackers without big expense accounts, good luck, and never-ending Pura Vida.

Return To Costa Rica And The End Of Hostel Management

January was half over and so was my holiday.  There were still fresh memories of Missouri red wine, snow-covered hills and holiday parties in my mind, but it was time to leave that and return to work in the sweltering 'winter' heat of Costa Rica.  I wondered how the owner, Jon, had taken our fight over the robbery and if there would be any repercussions.  He hadn't answered any of my emails.  While I was in the United States, I continued to check my Castle Tam Hostel work account to keep track of guests that were arriving and leaving.

One day before returning, I opened the work email up.  I typed in the shared password.  The email didn't open.  I tried again.  Again it didn't open.  I've been typing it in daily for the past year, so I didn't see any reason why I would forget it.  Still I checked my notebook where it was written.  I typed it in letter for letter, and still no success.  Dammit, Jon.  That sonofabitch had changed the password.  Rather than telling me to my face how he wanted me gone, he was simply going to squeeze me out of the hostel business...

I returned to Castle Tam in the late sunny morning.  January is high tourist season in Costa Rica, and I fully expected to find guests hanging outdoors on the porch or in the lobby.  To my surprise, the place was completely empty.  I walked through the garage bar and found it empty as well.  I called both Jon and Manual.  There was no answer.  I shouted their names.  Silence.  Not even a guest was around to see me.  The bright, tropical sun shined in through the glass door of the porch, but the eerie silence inside made the place feel lifeless. 

I was inside, so at least I knew Jon hadn't changed the locks yet.  I checked my room for any things I may have forgotten, then unlocked the secure office door behind the reception.  My other suitcase was already packed in there, and I had a few important documents in the safe.  The safe code I also had committed to memory.  Would he have changed it?

I spun the lock to the right and left and the small steel door opened quietly.  I grabbed my documents then stared inside the safe.  All our profits in large bills were taken from the reception cash register at the end of the day and guarded here in envelopes marked with the bills' denominations: twenties, fifties and hundreds for American dollars; ten thousands and twenty thousands for Costa Rica colones.  Once or twice a week, Jon would take the envelopes to deposit in his Costa Rica bank account.  He had not taken the money out yet this week.

For a moment, I stared inside the envelopes.  There was a security camera directly on me, but no one was around in the hostel.  Although it fit Jon's military style, I highly doubted he was hiding in a room watching me on video at that moment.  Normally he would be in the garage.  Besides I knew where the videos cables were connected and could disconnect them if I wanted to.

I was sitting there with at least five-hundred dollars in my hands.  I thought back to the past few months when Jon had stopped talking to me, his indifference to me being robbed and the following morning when he had raised a fist as if to hit me.  As if being robbed was my fault.

Before the hostel, we had hooked up with sexy European girls, happily terrorized other hostel guests and staff in Nicaragua and partied at Rocking J's Hostel epic birthday party.  During the hostel's beginning we had crafted a mad revenge plot on a scam artist who robbed us that eventually landed him in jail; changed the property from a creepy dump for transient, gringo whore-mongers into a proper, lively youth backpacker hostel; held live concerts for guests and planned for an eventual European sister hostel.  Through it all we had developed a private, sick politically-incorrect sense of humor (the worst of the political left and right) that no one else understood.

This video was from the good times.  What had gone wrong in the last 6 months?

The easy answer would be marijuana.  Jon came from a conservative family, and had been in the military until just before he left for Costa Rica so - to the best of my knowledge - at 26 years of age he had never smoked weed before we started traveling together.  Certainly he behaved as if he had never smoked; to this day he still can't roll a joint.  In the past year he had gone from gingerly inhaling small blunts we shared to hitting 3 or 4 bong loads everyday by himself.  I have no objection to marijuana (indeed, I support legalization), but this was far too much even for me.  He already had a guarded, structured military personality and this only grew into full-blown paranoia when he was high.

...But I'm lying to myself.  As with most men who think too highly of themselves, our greatest downfall is women.  It was a guest.

While Jon made sure guests were paying for their stay, I made sure they were enjoying their stay.  He has a great mind for numbers, which is why he kept track of the finances; but his people skills are lacking, which is why I always handled marketing and publicity.  This entailed taking guests out to tour the city, seeing cultural activities, eating at restaurants and drinking at bars (a lot) in hopes they would recommend us later by word or in writing.  Naturally, many of these guests were single women.

She arrived from the Netherlands for a semester abroad in Costa Rica.  Her plan was to stay at the hostel for a week or two until she found an apartment to share with other students.  Jon was determined to get every penny (Colon?) out of her possible.  She had barely unpacked her bags when he started spitting out his long-term stay options: student pricing, long-term monthly rates, privates with hot water blah blah blah...  I saw it from a more human perspective.  At some point while he was rapping, I got his attention and whispered, very business-as-usual, "If you really want her to stay longer, just fuck her right."

And that is what I did...the asshole that I am.  While Jon stayed in drinking and smoking, I took her out and we hooked up that same night.  She said she had just gotten out of a long-term relationship and had no desire to start anything serious.  Like a fool, I believed her.  We had our fun, and as predicted within two weeks she forgot about moving to a student apartment.  By then I had moved on to another girl.

...no fury like a women scorned.  She couldn't accept it.  She went after Jon, and he was willing.  Initially, I was happy for him.  When we started the hostel, we shared fantasies of young, horny university girls on vacation in Costa Rica showing up at our door and looking to behave badly...preferably with us.  I was perfectly OK with "hostel groupies."  I did not expect him to fall for one girl so bad; and I did not expect her to change him so much.

She had her revenge.  They locked themselves in the garage bar for hours some days.  Whatever she said and did to him in there was worse than any drug.  Within a few weeks Jon's conversation with me dried up to pure business talk: no politics, no sports, no sick, politically-incorrect jokes.  All of my faults (I have many) became magnified through her: any error I made in calculating profits or construction, any inappropriate comment, or any woman I brought back became another problem.  Just to make a point she cooked meals for Jon, the employee Manual and other hostel guests, but never for me.  Her hatred for me turned into his hatred.  I ignored it to the best of my ability and kept working, but this invisible wall continued growing between us.  I was getting irritated, tense and less motivated to work.  One of the cardinal hostel rules we agreed on was, "No free rooms for sex," and the day when she whispered to me with a smirk that she hadn't been paying for the past month, I knew I had to leave.  The business was finished...

I sat in front of the open safe and thought of these past bitter months.  The money envelopes were in my hands.  I could just rob this damn hostel, disappear, and never be heard from again.  Even if I were caught, criminal justice is slow in Latin America, I have connections and my clean record would work in my favor.  But I couldn't.  Revenge doesn't motivate my life.  I left the money in the safe.

With my bags in hand, I walked out the front gate, dropped my keys in the mailbox and left to figure what I would do with the rest of my life in Costa Rica.  I haven't returned to Castle Tam since.

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.