An Irish Pub called Irish Pub

You try explaining what this is.

Although I have faced many challenges in Colombia, few have been as stifling as trying to explain what a Leprechaun is to a group of Spanish-speaking fourth graders.

As a visual aid for my explanation, I had drawn a crude picture of what I hoped resembled the mythical Irish creature.

I tried to explain in English, speaking slowly, “A Lep-re-chaun is a… mag-ic-al lit-tle man. He likes to hide gold at the end of rain-bows.”

My students looked at me like I was speaking dolphin.

I paused to regroup my thoughts. Back home, I had never really thought about what a Leprechaun actually was—all I knew was children seemed to always be after their Lucky Charms.

I gestured to a pitiful picture of a rainbow and pot o’ gold I had scribbled on the board.

“The mag-ic-al man, the Lep-re-chaun, hides his gold at the end of rain-bows.”

“Oro!” one of my students yelled.

“Yes!” I practically cried, “Oro is gold. Very good.”

Little victories.

The Irish pub called Irish Pub.

After work I headed north to meet some of my gringo friends to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day at an Irish Pub called Irish Pub.

I know—creative.

Let’s just say originality in naming restaurants isn’t one of Colombia’s fortes. I kid you not—there is a buffalo wing restaurant called Buffalo Wings in Bogotá.

At any rate, since no one seemed to know what St. Patrick’s Day was, I expected the pub to be more or less empty. Much to my dismay, when I arrived at Irish Pub, there was a massive line stretching well out the door. Luckily, my friend Lynn had arrived earlier and was close to the front.

I joined her in line and took in the debauchery-filled scene. Drunken Colombians, adorned in green shirts and top hats, were everywhere. They sat at tables sipping green beer and blabbering in unintelligible Spanish.

A borracho Colombian.

I heard one guy yell, “¡Estoy borracho!” (I am drunk!)

I was surprised to see such a crowd and couldn’t help but feel like they had stolen our holiday—which we stole from Ireland—but that’s beside the point. I just really wanted some green beer.

After my friend Zach joined us, we finally made it to the front of the line and got a table inside the pub. Walking through the crowded bar, I heard a swirl of drunken English-Spanish conversations. I passed a few Americans flirting with Colombian girls speaking with broken English accents.

Borracho, indeed.

The gringos at Irish Pub!

We sat down and ordered a pitcher of the green beer. As we were engulfed by increasingly drunken chatter, I tried to guess who was American and who was not—it’s often hard to tell in the rich areas of Bogotá.

A few pitchers and one Irish car bomb later, it was time to go.

  

Headed back home with a healthy buzz, I thought to myself, The niños better behave tomorrow. Teacher Mike is going to be muy enguayabado.

And indeed he was.

A Night Out in Bogotá



Hanging out at the hostel

One of the toughest things about being a tall gringo in Colombia is the fact that none of the buses are designed for passengers over six feet tall. Standing with my head awkwardly cocked to the side, I hunched to catch a peek of the passing Colombian countryside as the bus sped towards Bogotá (bo-go-tah). It was Saturday night and I was with a dozen other people from my program.

Our mission: to party it up, Bogotá style.

It took just over thirty minutes to take the country bus from Cota to the TransMilenio station on Bogotá’s outskirts. TransMilenio is Bogotá’s rapid mass transit system—picture BART or the D.C. Metro, except instead of subways and trains you have special lanes and buses. You wait at above-ground stations that feel like subway stations, buses arrive, doors open, you get in and off you go. It is surprisingly efficient and easy to use and is a much cheaper alternative to an expensive subway system.



On the bus to Bogota

 We took TransMilenio to downtown Bogotá and walked to the hostel we planned to stay at. I was excited to have my first hostel experience.

We arrived at the hostel just after dark and were greeted by the hostel manager who was an American from Colorado. We signed in and went upstairs to check out our rooms, which were large and filled with several bunk beds. The manager told us that they sold beer for $2,000 pesos (about 80 cents) a bottle and had computers with free internet—music to our internet-deprived ears. Needless-to-say, we would capitalize on both offerings without inhibition.

I was chilling in the foyer waiting for the manager to get me a beer, when I heard a high-pitched yap come from the living room. I took a curious peek into the other room and thought I was hallucinating when I saw a four month-old golden retriever puppy growling and slapping at a ball with its tiny paws. Instinctively, I entered the room and said hi to the little guy. His eyes lit up and he loped towards me. I got down on a knee and let him greet me by gnawing on my hands with his razor-sharp puppy teeth.

And people say there is no such thing as a hostel golden retriever...



Irish Pub in Bogota equals awesome

At any rate, Gerico would have been pissed.

We left the hostel to look for food in Zona Rosa, a posh neighborhood in downtown Bogotá (yes, Bogotá has posh neighborhoods). Much to my delight, we found a Mexican restaurant in Zona Rosa and I ate a quesadilla. Colombian Mexican food is slightly worse than Chipotle, but better than Taco Bell, so they get props for that.

That night we went to a few different bars/clubs. The first one played a lot of American hip hop complemented with seizure-inducing strobe lights. The bathroom was pretty cool because you peed on ice in marble-encased urinals. Next, we went to a salsa club and I was able to show off some of my salsa skills.

TransMilenio Station

On a side note: I am so glad I took salsa lessons before coming here. They paid off big time one night when we broke into a spontaneous salsa dance party at Santa Cruz after drinking too much aguardiente (don’t worry, it’s legal) and cerveza at a small tienda across the street.

Okay, side note over.

Overall, we had a great time in downtown Bogotá. The locals laughed at our pathetic gringo attempts at achieving rhythm, but we didn’t care. The area was so nice that it felt like it could have been in any American city. There was even a Hooters, a Burger King and a Harley Davidson store in the area.

Despite this affluence, one only need walk a few blocks south to enter an entirely different world. A world where people survive on only a few thousand pesos a day and the thought of patronizing upscale salsa clubs seems just as likely to occur as spontaneously developing the ability to breath underwater.

The most beautiful sight in Bogota

As I enjoyed Bogotá’s nightlife, I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. I am not on vacation. I didn’t come here to party—I came here to help the people who can barely afford to feed their families, much less a night out in Zona Rosa.

Two weeks from now, I will.