“Your bed isn’t ready. Nothing in that room is ready. It’s busy here. You have to wait.”
I stood in a check-in office waiting with an African couple, two young French girls and one old lady from India. They looked annoyed. Whatever. Since my week was already going to hell, I felt fatalistic.
Things can only get worse before they get better. Let’s have fun.
Slowly, I blinked at the receptionist and grinned. She raised an eyebrow. Her blunt negative response hadn’t deterred me. Behind the counter, next to her, I saw a plastic box of cookies. I leaned on the counter and pointed at the sweets.
“Moze nesto slatko, molim te?”
“Oh, that’s nice. You know Croatian. Sure: chocolate or vanilla?”
“Cocolada. Hvala tebe.”
The receptionist chuckled and asked how I knew the language. I told a short version of my travels in The Balkans and my life in Serbia for the past five years. I laced the story with several Serbo-Croatian words. Behind the counter, two other staff members looked amused while I talked.
Heaven In Varoska Pivovara & Hell In A Hostel
“So I guess this time of year, August in Zadar, working in tourism is a katastrofa?”
That elicited a big laugh from the staff. They nodded their heads in acknowledgement – da, da. Meanwhile, the other tourists glared at me and huffed impatiently.
On Monday, an Airbnb I had reserved in Zadar had double-booked me. However, there was no room when I arrived. This set off a chain reaction of desperate last-minute bookings which forced me, in one week, to move to five different rooms in three different places. Full hostel rooms, frequent relocating, and a city bursting with tourists were not what I wanted with COVID-19 still raging on. On top of that, I had a bloody bandage on my head because of an attack by Nazi skinheads from the previous night when I left Zagreb for Zadar.
Truly, it was not an ideal seaside holiday.
But it got better. My comradery with the hostel staff paid off. Although I had to change rooms during my three days there, they allowed me to check-out late, and get first pick of the beds in the rooms with the least number of guests.
Plus, I got more cookies.
Heaven In Varoska Pivovara
Varoska Pivovara became my second home during my stay in Zadar. Fortunately, fighting Nazi skinheads in Zagreb gains you allies in other towns. The brewery’s owner had worked as an engineer in the United States, and while living there he picked up a Californian wife. One bartender was from Brazil. I spoke enough Portuguese to bring out her saudades, and singing Brazilian tunes helped.
Yes, my wife’s from California. That’s my hops hook-up.
The Brazilian songs were only part of the night’s repertoire. When I first showed up at Varoska, some locals were having a jam session, with two guitars and a cajon.
While watching them play, I ordered Varoska’s lager, Cakula. Light, yet it wasn’t that great. Despite the heat, I figured the Belgian dubble might be a better shot. Indeed, it was full, sweet and chocolately, so I drank it, quickly. That’s much better. Now, I feel loose – I feel this music.
In Portuguese, I mentioned to the bartender that I had a band. She asked one of the guitarists to loan me his instrument for a tune. One tune turned into two tunes, which turned into hours of jamming. Eventually, I was invited to perform two days later at the owner’s house for a barbeque he was hosting for a Croatian national holiday.
The next day, the American couple who had fought with me against the Zagreb Nazis were coming to Zadar. I asked the boss if they could join the party.
“From California – like my wife? The more the merrier.”
Party By The Seaside
Two days later, one of the guitar players drove us to a suburb of Zadar. For a while, we drove along the pretty coastline. Then, we stopped at a white stucco villa just a few blocks from the seaside. Two flags, one American and one Croatian, hung at the entrance to a walled, vine-covered terrace. When we entered, we saw the party was already set up. There was roast pork, salad, fresh bread, sweets and more. We drank bottles of Varoska’s Belgian dubble and homemade gin with fresh juice.
“Akash, try this pecenje, cooked pork. It’s excellent.”
“Didn’t I tell you we’re vegetarians?”
“Shit, um… the salads, potatoes and bread are fantastic. And there’s plenty to drink.”
I was introduced to Drasko. Despite his Croatian name, he’s from Chile and speaks Spanish. He was my cajon player for the show. The brewery staff hooked me up to an amp and a microphone. We began.
The guests, friends and employees of Varoska’s owner numbered two dozen. Because many were expats, they knew the English songs. They encouraged the music with pour after pour. Later, someone mentioned Emily had a band, and she reluctantly came up to sing. She killed it. We went through several more toasts through the evening, often drinking in the most unusual ways.
I had to check-out of the hostel the next day. But I was moving alone to a nice apartment until Sunday. Finally, I could relax. The week, which had started in hell, was beginning to feel like heaven.
