Views from Vidilica

Despair melted over me upon arrival at the beautiful seaside resort of Split. I trudged to my hostel in the relentless Croatian heat, clocking the beachwear shops and seafront bars littering the promenade. I began to assume the worst, that there was no authenticity left in this place.
However, when our hosts greeted us, they recommended a favourite local destination of theirs. We were given a name, 'Vidilica' and a vague point of a finger in the general direction.
That evening we donned jackets, as it inexplicably looked like rain, and set off. We were armed with a map and that hilarious tourist arrogance, the unquestioning belief that one’s destination will eventually appear, as long as one asks enough irritable locals where it is. However, there wasn't an exasperated Dalmatian to be seen. The only sorry individuals we could find were visitors intent on finding the nearest ‘Irish’ bar that offered two shots for a Krona before the heavens opened.
We did not realise that we were in for a long, painful ascent up Marjan, a 600ft hill on the peninsula of the city. We passed adorable Croatian neighbourhoods on our climb, wheezing through narrow lanes, praying that each flight of stairs would be our last.
When we finally reached the summit, a magnificent storm had set in. ‘Vidilica’ lied at the top of the last stair, a small café bar with breathtaking panoramic views of the entire city and harbor, as well as the nearby mountains and surrounding islands. The owner seemed to be shutting up for the night, but kindly pulled more than enough draft pints to last us a few hours before he gave us a bewildered smile and left. Our insanity and arrogance in the face of the first Croatian rainfall in months had left us alone at the top of Marjan hill, with nothing but beers and the view to accompany us.
Slashes of violet and ivory lightning sliced through the evening sky, the thunder almost drowning out the blur of Croatian chatter coming from the nearby radio, left outside by our runaway barkeep. Lights twinkled on both land and sea, and as the last dregs of sunlight were drained it was difficult to decipher between the two. The senseless beat of club music and cackles of drunken tourists lay far below us as we drank in the view and the tasty local beer.
We later discovered that the locals had taken an evening off to celebrate their miraculous shower of rain. What we were left with – and blessed with - that night was a naked, isolated fragment of old town Croatia.