Hitchhiking For Craft Beer on Krk Island
The girl was gone. She lingered in my head like a bad hangover the following week. Despite the beautiful Mediterranean Sea, relaxing beaches and nice climate, I slipped into a deep depression. What’s worse, Krk Island didn’t offer wild parties, like the islands of Puag or Hvar. Mostly, it was families with kids or young couples on lovely romantic holidays. Something I wanted.
That week I spent mornings teaching in the apartment in Vantacici, then afternoons writing at King’s Caffé in Malinska. King’s Caffé has another location in Rijeka which I had completely skipped, mostly because the Croat beer geeks told me their beer isn’t worth it.
Really, it isn’t.
But their IPA was – to use the polite word – drinkable. I tried their other three beers – once. Fortunately, King’s Caffé has some of Nova Runda’s beers in cans, so I drank those. One new brewery, PriMarius Pivovara, from Dubrovnik, had Zornjak, a Hoppy Red Lager. It was that week’s high point.
With good beer in short supply, I liberally poured carafes of the Malvazija and Zlatina white wines I had discovered in Rijeka. Often, wine creates a more poetic image than beer. Since I was in a lovesick depression, it suited me to sit in an old, smoky seaside café, staring into a half-empty glass of wine, while slow Bohemian folk songs played. These white wines went well with fresh seafood pasta, and there was plenty of that on the island.
Finally, during my last weekend on Krk Island, I decided to break out of my funk. I did something which I hadn’t done in a few years: hitchhiking.
Malinska To Basta Beach & Halfway Back
Basta lays claim as Krk Island’s most beautiful beach. In the morning, I could hitchhike there, stay a night in the city of Krk, then return to Malinska and leave the island. It was no more than 40 Kilometers to Basta, and Krk City would be on the return trip. I hoped my mood would improve with a day out in the fresh air.
Wait – what fresh air?
While I stood on the side of the road, the temperature hovered around 100 (40) degrees. For over a half hour I stood there. In that time, I chugged half a liter of water. I felt sunburn creeping up on all the uncovered parts of my body. My brain was baking. Hitchhiking was a stupid idea. It’s my fault, and damn that girl.
Yet, once I got my first ride, I managed to hitchhike to Basta within two hours. There was the older religious couple – fondling their crosses – who believed my half-lie about having a Croatian girl here (maybe I do?) There were the two patched and studded punk rockers who loved that their hitchhiker blasted The Misfits and Agnostic Front in their car. There was the lively young Slovenian couple who had never picked up a hitchhiker before.
I remembered why, years ago, I had enjoyed doing this for half a year straight across Europe.
After the thrill of hitchhiking, Basta Beach was a letdown. Oh, it was beautiful. Dramatically steep cliffs framed a deep azure blue sea which ran up to meet a powdery white pebble beach. Trademark this perfect panoramic spread and place it on the cover of any “Croatia: Full Of Life” brochure.
(In fact, I wrote that exact same damn description about Rijeka.)
But that pebble beach teemed with tourists. In the post-Covid world, this was a “superspreader” location. I squeezed myself between two sleeping couples, got momentarily distracted when I noticed one of the women was topless (ah, Europe,) then lay down for a nap. Somewhere in among the masses, a baby screamed. Despite being vaccinated against COVID-19, I felt uncomfortable being surrounded by hundreds of people from who-knew-what-part of the world. I lay with my eyes closed, sweating. Little quiet Sablicevo Beach in Rijeka was far better than this heaving madness.
It was too hot to sleep. I dipped into the blue Mediterranean water – just to say I swam at Basta Beach – but then immediately got out and walked to the one place with craft beer: Antica Pub.
Too Much Beach, Time For Beer At Antica
The bartender’s hair was dyed bluer than the sea. Several tribal-looking tattoos and piercings lined her ears and nose. She’d lived in Basta, working at Antica Pub for several years, but the craft beer bug had first hit her in Zagreb. She recommended Pulfer Brewery’s Ziher Pale Ale, a Zagreb brewery which can be found in many local bars. I hadn’t had this particular ale. I quipped on the funny name for the beer, and she explained that it was the Croatian word for the graphic on the bottle, the lock which connects tram cars.
I half-considered finding a hotel in Basta. Already, it was late afternoon. Hitchhiking in the scorching heat again sounded like torture. But I ordered a pickup espresso and said goodbye to the blue-haired bartender.
After a long walk to the outskirts of Basta, I caught a ride with an older lady who wanted to “return the favor.” She was referring to her time as a university student in former Yugoslavia when she hitchhiked up to Sweden; essentially to escape the Balkan Wars of the 1990s. She had studied and worked there, and after the wars ended she returned to Croatia to work as a guide on cruise ships (“for Americans, but older, not you”.)
She dropped me off at a gas station at the highway exit for Krk City. I prepared to walk the final two kilometers to the center, but a young guy at the gas station offered me a quick ride. He was a zipline tour operator. I regaled him with my experiences ziplining in Costa Rica, which he referred to as the “Kingdom Of Ziplining.” Before he dropped me off in the center, he proudly showed me his cactus garden he was growing…inside his car.
Rather than hitchhike more, I decided to book a cheap hostel room in Krk City for the night. It was just 20 Euros, and I had a room with four beds to myself. The hostel was almost empty, which was great. However, most of the city looked empty too. COVID hadn’t kept people away from Basta Beach, so why here?
Rocking With Kraft Beer In Krk City: Tiffany Pub
“It’s the older tourists. Ten years ago, before European Union, there weren’t many tourists, and us locals would party late all night on the streets. But then the old German tourists started buying rooms in the Old Town and complaining about the noise. So the city made new laws to close places earlier for these tourists. Because, you know, Croatia needs their money.”
When I asked the lone bartender at Tiffany Pub why Old Town was so dead, this was his answer. The bartender was Niko. And he was a joker. Tiffany Pub is the one place in Krk City that serves craft beer. Already, the pub was an alternative establishment in Krk City: old punk and metal music are on constant rotation. But its most recent owner had added ‘alternative’ craft beer to their menu.
The city ordinances shut everything down at midnight, but the locals partied as much as possible. I hung out with a group of dreadlocked Croat Rastas who invited me to bring my guitar to a jam session the following day. Niko’s friends bought me drinks while I joked with them. Yet at some point I left them to join some people dancing on the ancient city walls overlooking the sea. In the end, the police came by to shut things down, although I was too far gone to remember much of it. However, nothing bad happened to me.
After Tiffany Pub closed, I found another place that was still serving under the table. Late that night, while chatting with the staff there, one of them gave me a dimebag of weed. I asked how much; he said it was free.
“Welcome. This is how we are on Krk Island!”
That Sunday morning, after a month of nearly nonstop drinking, I experienced my first hangover on my trip.
Hladno Pivo For The Hangover
I checked out of the hostel, then trudged down to Tiffany Pub to nurse the hangover with a hair of the dog brew. It was only 1pm and they had just opened. Niko looked worse than I did. I ordered Medvedgrad’s Hladno Pivo lager, named after a Croatian punk band which translates, literally, as “Cold Beer.” I sipped it, then groaned.
“Niko, no fucking hitchhiking today. Going to take a bus, but the last one to Malinska leaves in only four hours. I’ll need a half hour to get to the bus station.”
He mulled over my dilemma.
“You need another beer. And this ‘White Russian’ drink you were talking about last night. But you have to show me how to make it.”
“Why the hell did I want a White Russian?”
Unfortunately, there’s no Kahlua or a similar coffee liquor in the bar. We tried to make the drink with Baily’s Irish Cream. Niko hated it. That’s no surprise: White Russians truly only work with Kahlua. I paid for the drink. Later, I also paid for his buddy Darko’s beer since he had brought me several the previous night.
I never saw the Croat Rastas again. Too bad. The dimebag of weed from last night was still in my pocket, waiting for a reggae music jam.
Darko enters the bar and takes my drink. I have a vague memory of accepting his rounds of beer, but avoiding him later. He has a wild look in his eyes, and it’s not from a hangover. The left side of his head is completely shaved and the remaining hair lays loose in front. He’s missing two teeth; lost in a very unfriendly way, I imagine.
“Hey, Niko. I think I stayed outside of the bar last night because Darko looked one beer short of getting in a fight with me.”
“Yeah, he is like that.”
“I’m usually one beer short of a fight too.”
“Oh, ok. You two will have fun today then.”
“You’re Not Getting On That Bus”
We did. Two more rounds of beer and sljivovica shots went around the table. We told more jokes, the hours passed, and I realized the last bus to Malinska was leaving soon.
“I need my bill. I need to get the last bus to Malinska at 5:15pm.”
“You’re not getting on that bus,” Darko said. A dangerous glint came to his eyes.
“Uh, and why not?”
“Because we’re driving you there!”
An hour later, I was in the back of a beatup Zastava with Darko at the wheel and Niko riding shotgun. We stopped at the same gas station I had hitchhiked from after leaving the highway from Basta. They asked me for a few Kunas.
“This money is for the petrol?”
“Well, that and more beer. What do you call a Croat who only drinks five beers?”
“Should I know this?” I asked rhetorically.
“The driver,” they said in unison, and cackled maniacally. Niko hopped out of the car, ran in to pay and returned with six Heineken cans. Since I’m not giving a damn about the beer, I might as well get this weed. I asked Niko if he had rolling papers.
Yes, he did.
While he drove, Darko sipped his beer from the cup holder in the central port. Niko and I toasted with our cans. He inhaled the joint, then passed it to me as the car accelerated on the highway back to Malinska. Normally, in such a situation, the rising wind blasting in my face would concern me. But there was no air conditioner, so I felt refreshed. Even if I don’t make it back alive, this is a good way to forget the past week.
What do you call a Croat who only drinks 5 beers?
The driver.
For a guide to the best craft beer in Rijeka click: here
