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.



      

Hostel Business In Budapest

"Ideally we get him so drunk that he will miss his 8am flight.  Leaving him no choice but to work with us.  C'mon...do you know what that guy could do for our hostel website traffic?!?!"

The owner of Aboriginal Hostel was explaining why we were trying to finish off 6 bottles of various Eastern Europe liquors in the amount of time normally reserved for the 100 Meter Olympic dash.  The target of his scheme was Josh, the American owner and founder of Hostelmanagement.com, one of the best website for promotion and networking in the hostel industry.  Josh had excused himself to the bathroom for minute - most likely due to the copious amounts of alcohol we had been drinking all night.

Aboriginal common room

Being a Costa Rica hostel manager had perks.  By simply flashing my business card and website, the Aussie manager had given me 20% off my room and access to the staff's store of liquors.  He introduced me to the owner and Josh, who by coincidence was staying at the place on the last night of a month-long Eurotrip before he caught an 8am flight to California the next day.  He had picked the hostel due to its good ratings.

Josh was a programmer and website designer who had eventually focused his work on his personal project, Hostelmanagement.com.  He was a quiet and unassuming man who didn't talk much unless it was about web design.  He looked at my hostel's website and quickly pointed out several things I could change in order to increase our traffic and guest visits.  I could clearly see how valuable he could be to any hostel business.

I wasn't the only one.  Aboriginal's Hungarian owner had been trying to convince him to become part of the Aboriginal team.  He was a flashy, loud, jewelry-wearing man who was more concerned with the monetary aspects of hostel ownership than the hospitality part.  He not only promised Josh great pay, benefits and compensation for his missed airplane flight, but said that he had "special friends" who could get Josh the golden prize: a free one year European Union work visa.  No questions asked.  Delivered to his hands within a few weeks.  I know from having failed to get a EU work visa that this is no small task...

Palinkaaaa

The Hungarian owner's showy manners and bribes seemed to make the shy Josh uneasy.  He was polite, but kept insisting that he had to make his flight back to the USA the next morning.  This was difficult considering the strong spirits we were drinking.  What the owner offered us was formidable: Hungarian and Romanian Palinka, Croatian Rakija, Polish vodka and beer for those who lacked the balls to pound these shots.

I of course jumped into the liquor with no reservations.  It was all free.  I've never found liquors from this part of the world particularly enjoyable, but the palinkas and rakija were high-quality brands that went down smooth. Too smooth...

Besides I had to do "business" with these hostel employees.  We talked of partnerships and the possibly of me working as a manager at Aboriginal in the future if Costa Rica didn't work out.  Josh asked my recommendations for Central America while the flashy Hungarian hostel owner insisted we drink one more shot...Josh, the pay is good...one more shot...We'll get you an EU visa...another shot...palinka good...blahblahshotblah...pa-shot-linka...

pa...lin...kaaaa...

aaa...   aaa...   shot...?

Fuck...

Why did I pay for a bed?  Around 9am I woke up on the couch in the common room.  The Aussie manager looked amused and told me to get some breakfast...It's FREE!  I asked what had happened to Mr. Hostelmanagement.com.  "Oh, he made his flight, but in bad shape. I need to get home myself and recover." My shape wasn't as bad as I expected and a few cups of strong coffee helped.

I ate the free breakfast (it's delicious), checked Hitchwiki.org then caught the metro to the nearest hitchhiking spot to Bratislava, Slovakia.

Lviv Through Polish Eyes: Last Night At Dodgy Metro Club. Boze!

Two hours...

The blond-haired, blue-eyed Ukraine doll who I had been singing to the previous night wasn't coming.  I had been nursing two import beers for the past 2 hours at an outdoor tent by the Fashion Club where we had meet the previous night.  She had sent one text stating that she was arriving "late."  Late does not mean "two hours."  I paid my tab and walked back to the hostel.

Things had taken a downward spiral since the Polacks and I had visited Lyiv Stadium.  The bus breaking down wasn't the problem; it had only added to the ridiculous absurdity of the day. The problem started after this incident.  While walking back we stopped at a small restaurant for some much needed hot food.  It occurred to me that I would need more cash for the night.   I walked across the street to a nearby ATM and tried my card:

"An error processed read is in your card.  We are sorry."

Many idealistic people love to say that they don't need money to be happy.  These people have never been in the middle of Ukraine when their bank account stops working.  I had already called my bank and they had said such a thing might happen, so I had hard cash wired to me as 'Plan B.'   Plan B was now Plan A and it would have to suffice for the next weeks' travels through Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary and Slovakia.  All of these countries had 'red flags' for my bank, so I had to assume the worst.  'Cheap' Ukraine was know a little less affordable.

I would have been only slightly annoyed with the credit card malfunction, but it got worse when we returned to the hostel because the Dutch University Orchestra had taken over the place.  They were impossible to avoid and they still didn't give two shits about socializing with our Polish/American group.  Despite this Rado and I continued dogging the girls with such clever pick-up lines like, "What instrument do you play?" and "Do you speak Polish?"

They continued to ignore us in a polite, proper Western European style.  And in proper European style, they decided to engage each other in a strip-ping-pong game just to test their drunken limits.  My Polish comrades and I watched for a while but eventually left when we realized the girls weren't getting completely naked.  I had a date to go on anyway...

My date was an epic fail, and was further compounded by the fact that my credit card wasn't working properly.  Even if my blue-eyed, blond-haired Ukraine doll hadn't shown up, I still would've drank my ass off...under normal circumstances.  I had to restrict my spending and return to the hostel to drink.  I am a hostel manager, so naturally the Retro Hostel manager and I had plenty to talk about.  She recommended that I go to 'Metro Club' to have a good time. My Polish comrades were already there.  But just one thing...

"Be careful because many girls are 15 and 16 years old. They make you buy drinks."

Thanks for the warning.  According to this Facebook graph, Metro Club is very popular in Lviv (at least I think that's what it is.)   I don't have pictures from the club.  I can only refer you to the website: http://www.metroclub.com.ua/   

 I imagine the frequent amount of girl-related activities explain the popularity, for example the monthly Miss Facebook Metro Club Competition.  Go ahead and vote.  The winner gets an iPad; which is probably equal to a typical month's salary in the Ukraine.  Holy Crap!

Yes, many pretty girls who I hope aren't 15 and 16.  If you really want to file through all of the pictures from their past events, you will find one of the Retro Hostel manager and I talking together, as well as the Polacks and the annoying Dutch Orchestra Students.  Metro Club is fun in a dodgy, sketchy way, but we had more interesting things to talk about:

"So, we both working in hostel...what country do you think was the best to sleep with?"

"For me, it was France.  French girls at my hostel were the best.  And you?"

"I looove Italians men.  I have a very good storys."

She told me the stories.  I told her my stories.

We ended up back at the hostel talking into the early hours.  She surprised me with her knowledge of world history, and I surprised her with my knowledge of Slavic History.  We mused over the Czech/Slovak division, the intricacies of the Balkan War and the similarities in the various Slavic languages.  She expressed pride over the common 'Slavic Brotherhood' that exists regardless of whether one is Russian, Czech or Serbian.  At some point I asked her for details about Viktor Yushchenko and his political opponents who tried a poison assassination attempt that caused his face to get disfigured.

She was amused that an American would know about this Ukrainian political shit.  Personally, I think it is one of the more amazing facts that I have read about in recent worldwide political history.

By the way, she was a Slavic History major...

"Ayyyyyyyyyyyyy.....!!!!!"
"Boze moj!!"
"Boze moj!!"
"Ohhhh. Boze!!!!"

After continued talks of which country in our respective hostels had been the best in bed, eventually we decided to try it ourselves.  We had been drinking for a long time, and she invited me to sleep in her private room rather than sleeping on the lobby sofa.  These are difficult decisions.

I suppose it was done in a very professional (if blurry) way.  When all was finished, neither of us had won the competition.  She still believed that Italians were the best and I still believed that Frenchies were the best...

I don't have pictures to remember the craziness of that night at the hostel, and its probably for the best.  However my Polacks 'brats' did send a photo to me.  Here we are up to no good before going out.  I hope the next time we meet it will be even worse.  Stay 'debil' my brothers.

A whole lot of dupa at Retro Hostel Schevchenko

The Slow Train to Lviv

'Gatta' means cat in Greek...

The seats were solid, hard wood.  They hurt.  The train creaked along and the ticket collector didn't arrive until a good 20 minutes after we had boarded in 'middle-of-nowhere,' Ukraine.  I paid about 50 Hryvnia and my accidental tour guide, Maria, paid a little less.  It was then that I finally realized she wasn't going all the way to Lviv with me.  Her long trip from Greece via Krakow was ending in a small village named Rudne.  Once again I would be alone in a large city where I don't speak the language.  I returned to my usual state of traveler's panic.

I questioned Maria for information about the train's arrival in Lviv.  In my notebook she wrote 'Prymiskyj Vogzal' which was the name of the station, or possibly the name of a villain from a cheesy sci-fi film.  To clarify she informed me, "Not Central Lviv Station."  Very reassuring.  So how do I get to central Lviv?

Fortunately I had the foresight to write a short list of available hostels in Lviv:
1. The Kosmonaut Hostel, 1st floor Sichovykh, Stritiso 8
2. Roxelana Hostel, General Chuprenke 50/4 Tehepan
3. Retro Hostel Shevchensko, Shevchensko 16.  Take Tran #1 or #9, exit Green St, cross to Saksaganskogo St.

The street names are complicated but at least they have names.  Unlike Costa Rica where I live.

Notice the third hostel has the most directions?  As a hostel manager, I beg of you hostels to always have good directions on how to arrive at your place.  The three hostels are all cheap, but I settled on Retro Hostel for the simple fact that its description told me how to get there.  Imagine.  Although it would seem obvious, many hostels seem unaware that most of their guests are completely new in the city, don't speak the language and exercise bad judgement due to exhaustion/disorientation/hangover/stupidity. 

Maria recognized the information I showed her.  She drew a simple map of the train station and two parallel streets.  I had to cross one parallel street then look for tram 29A which would take me to Green Street where Retro Hostel was. Simple.

"Skype? You Skype?  I learn English, you?"

"Umm...yes.  I have Skype."

She wrote her Skype name next to the map and continued sketching on the opposite page.  It was not a map.  It was a cat.  I asked her if it had a name.  Above the drawing she wrote 'Gatta.'  She told me 'Gatta' is 'cat' in Greek.  Next to the drawing she wrote in English: 'hello', 'good morning' and 'good night.'

"I learn English, you, Skype?" she repeated and gave me a small smile while looking directly at me.  There was a sad, pleading look in her eyes.  She took my hands and indicated she wanted a massage.  I obliged with a certain guilt.  I had observed how thin she was and it become even more evident when I placed my hands on her.

I felt like a dick for thinking that she had been out to scam me or lead me into some trap.  I remembered the pictures of her children on her phone.  She had been away working as a cook in Greece for almost a year; most likely wiring her money to her family in her small village.  Due to the wide language barrier I could never learn the true story.  I'm sure it merits more respect than my silly joyride through the Ukraine.

In time Maria gave me a massage as well.  When she finished she gave me another long, sad look.  I looked her in the eyes.  I thought of taking advantage of the situation, but guilt overcame me again and I let the moment pass.  I was sure there would be more moments like this in Lviv very soon.  After gazing at her for a minute I stupidly said, "Skype!" 

She smiled meekly and laid her head on my shoulder.  Not knowing what else to do, I put my arm around her.  Quickly she drifted into sleep despite the hard wooden seats.  I was unable to sleep and stared out the window at nothing in particular.  I stroked Maria's hair absentmindedly.  An incredible sadness came over me.  The train slowly became more hot and crowded and interesting with each stop, but I noticed none of it.

When we arrived at Maria's small village another lady was waiting for her there.  She told me "two more," which I took to mean two more stops until Lviv.  I thanked her for her help and carried her heavy bags off the train.  Her and her friend waved at me as the train took off.  I waved back and smiled bitterly, knowing I would never see her again.

 

Raise Up! We Have An Official Castle Tam Sign!

Trying to find our hostel?? If the taxi driver tells you we don't exist, we are full or his 'friend' has a better hostel, show him this picture.  Then smack him hard and get your money back.

As of June 11th we have a big black-and-green Castle Tam sign to mark our hostel location at, "100 metro al oeste de la Escuela Roosevelt."  Seven o'clock at night when the sun is going down is not the most convenient time to install a sign, but at least we have it.

First we got it delivered...fortunately in one piece.

Then the Ticos welded the mount. Look at the pretty sparks fly.

 

Then the Ticos hoisted the wall mount and attached the sign.  I would have video but this happened at 10 o'clock at night.  Not prime filming time indeed.

Then to top it all off, "Sorry sorry, manana, manana. We will install the lighting tommorrow..."  Another typical "Tico'ed" job.  Oh well.  Goodbye Tuanis Hostel, Hello Castle Tam Hostel.

Welcome To Castle Tam Hostel, Costa Rica

Ok.  All the birthday party madness is over.  Now I can properly introduce myself and the hostel.  Since nobody actually reads anymore, I won't bore you with elaborate descriptions. I'll just go the 'Reality TV' way and show you a live video.  Welcome to 4 minutes of Castle Tam:

This is the early Sunday morning video where everyone is still recovering from the Saturday night festivities. Which means they're still in their dorms nursing a hangover.

You get the idea.  We have beds, kitchens, bathrooms, an outdoor courtyard and booze.  The main things to take note of: we're cleaner than your average roach-infested hostel in Costa Rica, we're renovating and you don't see a bunch of white, dreadlocked, save-Mother-Nature-Rainforest hippie types.  They are more than welcome to visit, but these tourists are already as common as the roaches here:

If you want to save Costa Rica, go back to your 1st world country, get a profitable job and invest the money in some foreign company that's in Costa Rica hiring locals.  Corporate exploitation? Globalization?? Blahblahblah.  Ask any local in a developing, high-unemployment country and they will tell you that even if you're employed as waiter, janitor or McDonalds burger-flipper, any job is better than no job.  Assuming they speak English (which would get them a better job.)

Due to the early Sunday morning hangover, this video required an extensive amount of coffee to film.  Thanks to the wonders of globalization, we have modern, fast imported coffee machines, and not these inefficient, traditional chorreadores.

Technology is great.  This contraption is only good for kindling and tourist money.

Costa Rica Hostel Debauchery: Raleigh's Birthday

I haven't celebrated my birthday on American soil for the past 4 years.  First it was Thailand, then Slovakia. and now Costa Rica.  The big difference this year is that I was working the whole time with a bottle of Flor de Cana rum in my hand:

Yeah. This is my job and I love it!  Come down here and be a part of it.   I will unabashedly say that while the rest of Costa Rica is known for its nature and ecotourism, San Jose itself is as much Sin City as Las Vegas, Nevada.  So its the perfect fit for me.  I'll get you a place to stay for the night, serve you a drink, then take you out for a pub crawl on 'Calle de La Amargura' for the night.

Calle de La Amargura is only 400 meters from the hostel, so that's where I wrapped up my birthday night.  You should too.  On this night, one girl just isn't enough for me.  Its a good thing this gringo can speak Spanish so damn well...

We had a reservation for our favorite dive bar, Eric's Copas.  This bar wins the "Gringo Award" because the music is low enough to have an actual conversation.  Most Costa Rican bars have the music cranked so loud you can't hear yourself think.  This is OK when the place is packed, but it makes no sense (at least to gringos) to have the music up when there's only 5 people inside.  After the pub crawl the night only got better.






Did I mention its not my real birthday?


Tuesday still awaits...

There's No Pura Vida In Costa Rica: Welcome To Castle Tam Hostel

Harold Camping was wrong by a few days.  Today is Doomsday, or at least it is for Tuanis Hostel.  It quite literally went up in flames with one of our guests, Dr. Danger.

 Castle Tam Hostel has risen from the ashes and shall wreak havoc on other San Jose hostels, and I'm one of the Americans in charge of this.  For some reason this guy Jon decided to give me the title of 'Hostel Manager.'  Most likely because I'm a gringo who speaks Spanish.  Now I have to explain why a Costa Rica hostel is represented by a castle with dragons instead of a beach with parrots:

Why a castle with dragons?  Read our stories on the new website for the full answer.  Or better yet come to the hostel in San Jose and we can tell you ourselves.  For $8 a night you can't go wrong and the stories we have from just the past 2 months can go all night.  Trust me we have plenty of drinks and drugs to last you that long.



We are no ordinary hostel.  Hell, we already set a guest on FIRE.  So goodbye Tuanis Hostel.  Pura Vida.

Costa Rica Hostel Burning Man!

Last night we set a man on fire at our hostel.

Do I have your attention now?

His name is Dr. Danger and he is a professional daredevil.  He is also a lunatic...but a nice friendly lunatic.  He showed up at our door, told me what he did for a living and naturally I told him to get the hell away from our hostel.  Once I checked his information I realized he was authentic and now he has made us possibly the only hostel in the world to have set one of its guests on fire.  I expect 'viral,' once the video is edited.

Hola. My name is Raleigh and I'm the manager of Castle Tam Hostel in San Jose, Costa Rica.  Check us out: http://www.castletam.com//

We recently changed the name from Tuanis Hostel to Castle Tam and are having a massive Internet blitz.  While I cannot promise we will set more people on fire, the list of characters who have passed through our door gives me a constant arsenal of things to write about.  In addition to my daily job, I will wax nostalgic on my past travels though Asia, Europe and the Americas as well as post info about my favorite hobbies: music and beer.

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