Nightlife Out On Zadar’s Riva
Joy. Elation. But I left Turanj that afternoon feeling terribly lonely. The bus I took back to Zadar was not for tourists. It was for local traffic, so it was almost empty. The solitude was ideal for reflecting on the heartbreak, the girl I would never see again.
While the beautiful Dalmatian coastline passed by, I wrote out the heartbreak in a song. Pathetic, yes, but it does the trick. After that, I was ready to squeeze the last of the sadness out with a happy night of drinking and dancing in Zadar. Finally, it was the weekend.
I enjoy the craft beer at Brlog Brewery. I enjoy the company at Trooper Pub. I enjoy the beer selection at Deja Brew Bar. I enjoy the craft beer, selection and the company at Varoska Pivovara. But it doesn’t matter where I start. In the summertime, the nightlife in Zadar finishes at Riva.
No, Riva is not a nightclub. A long white stone promenade runs the length of The Peninsula on the seaside. Effectively, it’s an artificial beach. Tourists congregate on Riva at the north end of The Peninsula to listen to the Sea Organ and take photos of The Greeting To The Sun.
What are those? Look them up online: they’re tourist attractions.
Locals congregate on Riva at the opposite end of The Peninsula to drink and party the night away. And, probably, to avoid the tourists.
I was going to drink there tonight to forget the day in Turanj.
Varoska Pivovara is directly on the street from the bus station. It was only a ten-minute walk, but the afternoon sun was brutal. So, when I arrived at Varoska, instead of beer, I opted for their refreshing homemade gin with juice. I told the Brazilian bartender of my sad story of saudades for the ginger girl in Turanj.
“You’re so Latino. We’re all going to Riva after we close Varoska tonight.” She chuckled, “You’ll find someone new there to help you forget her.”
Bless those Brazilians. Tristeza nao tem fim, felicidade sim…
Headbanging At Trooper Pub
After Varoska Pivovara, I returned to my apartment in the old town to clean up, rest and change for the evening. I really need to drink.
First, I owe Trooper Pub a visit.
Trooper Pub is not a craft beer bar, and that’s not important. When I first went out in Zadar, and walked by the place, instantly I thought of the Iron Maiden song.
I wasn’t disappointed.
On my first day there, the tattooed bartender told me, “Most of the tourists in Zadar run away from our pub, because they are afraid of the loud music and the scary drinkers.” She wrinkled her barbel-pierced nose, flexed her tattooed arm, and smiled deviously.
“We don’t want those people here anyway.”
“Too bad for them. I came here because of that music.”
Most of the tourists in Zadar run away from Trooper Pub, because they are afraid of the loud music and the scary drinkers.
After I told the staff of my incident with the Nazis in Zagreb, I showed them the photos of me from the newspaper. I warned them that I, “looked like G.G. Allin at a live show.” It was true love. The nickname stuck. Every time, I entered there to loud greetings of G. GGGG!, followed by hard punk music on the speakers, then a round of rakijas. I fell in with a group of local metalheads and some long-term tourists who went there daily. We spent the whole week scaring away the normal tourists with our excessive drinking, loud singing, and sick humor.
When I entered Trooper and announced it was my last night, the bartender cried, “No, no! We need to remember you.” She walked me to a nearby shop and instructed me to buy a plant. I chose a bamboo shoot, a plant for posterity. Now, that honorary plant (with my G.G. Allin nickname written on a sign) is in their “Garden of Regulars” on display in the front window.
Walking In Riva, Zadar
First, I went to Varoska. I helped the owner and the Brazilian bartender close up shop. The owner asked what booze I wanted to bring to Riva.
“How much are you asking?”
“Hey, you’re leaving. Have a party. It’s my beer: my account. Don’t ask.”
So we filled up a cooler with the Belgian quadruppels I love so much. As a show of good faith, I purchased a bottle of their high-end beer, Ruzica, an American Wild Ale. It has some good cranberry and strawberry flavors, and a nice Brett funk which feels refreshing on a hot night.
Although it was long after sunset, we were still sweating profusely when we jumped in the boss’s white van with the full cooler. He handed me a Belgium. I gazed at the interior skeptically. Empty beer bottles and kegs lay scattered on the floor. The Brazilian laughed.
“You drive around residential neighborhoods in a white windowless van full of alcohol?”
“Yeah, this for our beer deliveries. Really helpful during the pandemic. Don’t think it looks as creepy here as in the USA. But if you think this van makes me look like a pedophile, you’re going to love this.”
He rummaged under his seat, pulled out a hat, doffed it, then grinned. It was one of those conical woven hats typically seen on Chinese farmers.
“Yeah, creepy bro. Ji Xiping is proud. You holler at girls wearing that thing?”
“Sadly, yes. Just once at an intersection.”
“Dirty old man. I forgive you,” I smirked as I cracked open the dark Belgium.
We sped through the narrow streets of Zadar’s Old Town…too fast. The Brazilian and I had introduced the boss to trashy Argentinian kumbia and Brazilian pagode music. He was reveling in a particular tune, “Los Pibes Quieren Sexo,” and blasted it from the speakers. Somewhere on Mihovil Pavlinovic street we found an open parking spot.
After parking, I contacted the Trooper crew. “We’re at the Statue of Spiro Brusina. Where we always meet!”
Eventually, they joined at the sea’s edge – the stone “beach” of Riva. Every few feet, people gathered on the walkway. Different genres of music mixed in the humid air: shitty national Turbofolk pop from a Bluetooth speaker, Metallica from an acoustic guitar and trashy Argentinian kumbia villera from one cellphone amplified by an empty beer glass.
Yes, we played metal, EDM, country and more. But it was the kumbia that brought some Latinos to us. While walking by, they glanced at our party when they heard the Spanish lyrics. I shouted at them in Spanish. The Brazilian tried her Portuguese. Curious, they approached us and – much to the amusement of the Croats – we began chatting in Spanish and Portuguese. They were flight attendants on a short holiday. They were fun. Also, they brought more alcohol.
We danced until sunrise. The air was thick with humidity, singing and happiness. Within an hour, all the beer, wine and liquor bottles were empty. We wanted more, but because of COVID restrictions, everything was closed. It didn’t matter anyway. Everything was delirious, joyful chaos. And I didn’t want it to end. Fortunately, I had one more night in Zadar.
We made plans to meet at Riva the following evening. Everyone stumbled off their separate ways. Around 5am, I arrived at my room. After turning the air conditioner on full blast, I set several alarms on my mobile then checked it for messages. Before I did anything else, I needed to be completely packed.
Social (Beer) Media Shit
I woke up to find my Instagram full of notifications. What did I write last night?
Don’t Drink Beer is one of the craft beer community’s most popular accounts. Around 10 years ago a guy started trolling uptight beer geeks on Youtube by filming himself destroying rare expensive beers (known as whales,) while also writing funny, yet knowledgeable beer reviews on his blog. Like the whole online world, he moved onto other social media. Now, it’s almost principally Instagram memes, TikTok clips and podcasts.
The previous day, he had posted himself in a goofy Fast & Furious screen-print t-shirt. I didn’t know the context, but while drunk as hell, I sarcastically posted, “I’m just here for the beer. Not this shit.”
Surprisingly, my comment was pinned to the top, with his response that I was an idiot, aksuwally, if you listened the podcast you’d understand the inside joke, it’s not just about beer, YOUMUSTBENEWHERE, etc. There were dozens of comments, and more being written as I read the post. They ranged from ‘you’re a fucking idiot,’ to ‘you obviously aren’t American,’ to ‘well, I’m interested in what this guy says about craft beers in that part of the world.’
I considered responding. No. Sarcasm never works online. And if you try to explain that your comment was sarcastic, no one believes you. You get accused of backpedaling.
I considered DMing the guy to apologize. No. I don’t know him. Probably, he would screen-cap my message, post it on his profile, say I was full of shit and exacerbate the situation. It was like highschool, and I was – ironically, in a group of nerds – the nerd who had tried to sit down at the popular kids’ table. Don’t argue with adult men who consider a podcast – with thousands of online listeners – to be an ‘inside joke.’
What a waste of time.
One of the Latinos had messaged me on Whatsapp.
“Vamos a Riva esta noche? Voy a llevar mas vodka.”
I was going to party with real people. Why should I worry about Internet trolls I’ll never meet? Notifications kept dinging on my Instagram. I ignored them.
I responded, “Claro, loco. Voy a llevar mas cervezas artesanales! Nos vemos tipo a las 22hr?”
“Dale, gringo.”
It’s my last night in Zadar, Croatia. Summer is almost over. I will miss this.
For a guide to the best craft beer bars on Croatia’s Dalmatian coast click: here
