There’s Nothing Like a Well‑Earned Hangover
There’s Nothing Like a Well‑Earned Hangover
Ožujsko pivo in Croatia
The white, floppy hat will always remind me of a horrendous Croatian hangover.
Fresh off the plane, and emboldened by the knowledge that we had a long weekend of beaches stretching before us, we had our first drink in Dubrovnik at Buža Bar. Buža means “hole,” and it is a fitting bar name, because you really do need to climb through a hole in Dubrovnik’s city walls to get down to the cliffside tables. But first you need to trust the sign that humbly advertises “Cold Drinks.”
From the street, it is difficult to assess what sort of chilled beverages in what sort of setting lay beyond because this particular drinking facility is located on the steep, rocky exterior of the barricaded city. After a day of public transport and budget airlines, those two simple words were too magical to ignore, and we took the risk of investigating further.
Stepping through the swinging metal gate, we entered an outdoor bar dotted with white umbrellas. Shown promptly to a table at the water’s edge. I managed to overcome my wonder at the view for long enough to order.
I started with a bottle of Ožujsko pivo, an unpronounceable but common Croatian lager that tasted like pure possibility.
Staring out at the sparkling Adriatic, I ordered another. And then maybe three more.
After that, wine with dinner sounded like a fantastic idea. Plus, we surely couldn’t go to bed without a vacation nightcap.
I woke up to my alarm in a room that seemed to be spinning. Mouth dry, I cautiously recalled thinking that booking a 35-euro, all-you-can-drink day cruise to the Elafiti islands was a good idea.
“I can’t go on the boat today,” I mumbled in the general direction of my boyfriend. When he responded with only silence, I slowly focused. It turns out that sober people are loath to pass up a pre-paid cruise to small Croatian archipelagos and I was about to be dragged along for the ride. As I was hustled out the door into the glaring sun, I realized the undeniable truth: I was going to need a hat.
Squinting at storefronts, I finally found a shop open before our 10 a.m. boat. Between dusty bottles of limoncello and stacks of novelty playing cards, I saw the straw hat.
Even in the throes of a hangover, I hesitated before forking over the amount on the price tag. At 30 euros, it rang up at nearly the cost of the boat ride itself. Shapeless and accessorized with seashells, it also made me look ridiculous.
Out on the water, I watched the entire boatload of cruise goers jump into the impossibly blue sea. I winced at their easy movements and their careless joy before gingerly pulling my shell-bedecked hat lower over my eyes.
As we ferried from island to island, the Croatian hangover gradually passed. The next day, I dutifully crammed the hat into my weekender bag and toted it home. There it remains in the back of my closet as a souvenir to my poor judgement, but also a reminder of the stupid good luck at having stumbled upon such a beautiful spot to accumulate such a well-earned hangover.