What Staying in an Atomic Bunker Taught Me about Budget Travel

My year of backpacking took me many places, including one very unique hostel in Zagreb, Croatia: the aptly named, no-frills Atomic Bunker Hostel. This property is no longer in business (and I think my experience will give you an idea why!) but it was such a one-of-a-kind stay, I still want to share it with you. Because it also carries some important lessons for budget travel on your sabbatical.

Why I Decided to Sleep in an Atomic Bunker

My original plan to tour the Balkans began with a ferry ride straight from Italy to Dubrovnik, Croatia. I was admittedly bested by the Jadrolinija website and decided that instead of tearing my hair out, I should just adapt my plans. I charted out an overland route up the length of Italy and through Slovenia to reach Croatia. In turn, that meant I would have to travel overland down the length of Croatia to reach the coast.

Knowing your limits is an important part of sabbatical travel. One of mine is not sitting on a bus for more than 10 hours, so I needed something to break up my transit between Ljubljana, Slovenia and Split, Croatia. While I was checking out what Croatian cities might make a reasonable pit stop, I spotted a hostel that had just opened in an old atomic bunker and that sealed the deal: I was on my way to Zagreb! Since I wouldn’t have much time to spend in the city itself, planning a one-of-a-kind sleepover seemed like a great remedy to the tight schedule I was keeping.

Would You Wander Down This Alley?

Here’s another limit I developed over the course of my sabbatical: I try to avoid arriving in new cities after dark (or before sunup). This, however, wound up being one of those unavoidable days when I’d be relying on streetlamps and a solid resting bitch face to safely reach my final destination.

The bunker was, understandably, located far from Zagreb’s attractions and perhaps a 20 minute walk from the main bus terminal. I took comfort in the fact that the sidewalk I was on was relatively well populated by cyclists and old ladies walking their dogs.

I used a combination of Google Maps and written directions from the hostel and successfully found the street on which the bunker was supposed to be located. As I passed a bakery, a man in his 30s noticed my backpack and smartphone and called out to ask if I knew where I was going. I thought I did, so I just nodded in his direction before moving swiftly along. One of the many uncomfortable things I had to confront about myself on my sabbatical was how little I trust men.

After a few minutes I reached the end of the street, with no sign of the hostel or the stencilled blue bombs they had said guests should follow. I started to retrace my steps and Bakery Guy approached me. In retrospect, I feel bad for blowing him off that first time. I never got his name but he was one of the kindest, most helpful people I met on my trip.

His Flags were Green, but My Host’s were Red

My new companion explained that he lived on the second floor of the apartment building on the corner and he knew exactly where the hostel was. As we walked, he vented a bit about how frustrated he was with the owners of the place. He saw travelers just like me wandering like lost lambs practically every day and he kept trying to convince the owners to put up signage and improve the lighting. This lifelong local said he wouldn’t want to walk to this hostel by himself and he definitely didn’t think I should. He went on to joke a bit about how the owners kept brushing him off. “I’m not convinced this place is legal!” he laughed.

As we chatted, we entered an unmarked tunnel with a single light bulb on a motion detector. My companion had clearly walked this way with travelers several times. He could mark the time of the tunnel light with a snap of his fingers. But the tunnel was long and the light only reached so far.

On paper, it sounds like a horror story, no? Surely my mom is bemoaning my wandering down a dark alley with a total stranger.

The hostel was at the tunnel’s farthest end. Apparently, the proper entrance does not match the hostel’s address at all. I rang the bell and thanked my companion who turned around to return to his coffee and friends.

First Impressions

Being a small, new project, the only hostel staff appeared to be the owners themselves. One opened the heavy bunker door and showed me down the concrete steps. There was no doubt: this was a real deal atomic bunker. We passed a couple more large doors before entering the reception area.

I had my passport and wallet ready to go. I had never been in a hostel that did not immediately make a copy of my passport or at least take down the number. So it was odd that the owner seemed bewildered by my handing it over. “Oh, okay, I guess we can do that now,” he shrugged.

While he copied the numbers down, I got my first impression of the place. Sign after sign after sign outlining rule after rule after rule. The most disturbing was a notice that told guests not to complain about anything. The owners had worked for three years to turn this bunker into a hostel, so it bothered them when people raised complaints.

It’s true that there are particularities of atomic bunkers guests probably need to be prepared for. There certainly isn’t going to be any WiFi or cell phone reception buried underground. But for the first thing a guest sees to warn them withhold any complaints or GTFO? It wasn’t welcoming.

In fact, I would argue that I spent three years planning and saving for my sabbatical. So my stay at a hostel was every bit as important to me as it might be to the hostel itself.

No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition

My details now recorded, the owner proceeded to show me around the place. But first did I want to drop my bag at reception? I don’t leave my pack anywhere but a secure locker if I can help it. So I said no thank you, it’s not uncomfortable. “Okay, good enough,” he shrugged.

Here’s the common room and the dorm I’ll be staying in, and now we’ll go find the bathroom. Am I sure I don’t want to leave my bag at reception? The bathroom is a bit of a hike from the dorms. I was sure. I’d be trekking in Nepal soon, so it was good practice for me to carry the weight. “Okay, good enough, I suppose,” he shrugged.

We embarked on our own trek, up the stairs, out of the bunker, around the building, and up another flight of stairs to a slightly rundown bathroom. As we walked, the owner grilled me about my travels and especially why I booked a night at his hostel. It was perhaps 10pm at this point and I was a little caught off guard by the interrogation. It didn’t feel like normal small talk. I stumbled through my answers, anxious to share neither too little nor too much, and he kept repeating that catchphrase of his: “Okay, that’s good enough, I suppose.”

I honestly started to worry about what would happen if my answers were deemed not good enough. Would I be thrown out on the street in the middle of the night?

A Night in the Bunker

The dorm itself was as barebones as ever I’ve seen. Food and drink were strictly prohibited. With no natural light underground, setting an alarm was a must. And unlike most hostels, no bedding or pillows were provided. My sabbatical packing list was prepared for anything though: a Cocoon silk sleep sheet and warm socks to keep from freezing, an inflatable travel pillow, a headlamp for getting to the bathroom at night.

Would I Stay in an Atomic Bunker Again?

Overall, I am glad I stayed. It was a completely unique experience, and I think a similar accommodation with better management could be one of the coolest places to stay in Europe.

At this specific hostel in Zagreb, I got the impression that the owners were more interested in the idea of running a hostel than they were in the reality of working in the hospitality business. So it’s not terribly surprising to me that they’re no longer in business.

It wasn’t the worst hostel I’ve ever stayed in. But it was definitely the strangest.