My name is Vitaly, and I am homeless

In a world that celebrates stability, owning things, and putting down roots, there are a few people who choose a different path—one built not on permanence, but on movement. This is the story of one such person. A designer, writer, speaker, and creator who decided to give up his apartment, let go of most of his possessions, and embrace life without a fixed address. Not out of necessity, but out of choice. Out of curiosity. Out of a deep desire to live more deliberately.

His story isn’t about escape. It’s not about wanderlust or ticking countries off a list. It’s about rediscovery—of work, of people, of passion, and of self. It’s about learning what matters most when everything else is stripped away.

Table of Contents

The Man Who Chose to Live Without a Home

There is something deeply liberating and quietly emotional about the sound of a door closing behind you—one that you’ll never open again. For him, it wasn’t just about leaving a physical space. It was about letting go of a chapter in life, turning his back on the familiar, holding his breath for just a second, and stepping into the unknown. In that moment, he could almost feel the shift in the wind. A quiet but powerful change had begun.

He didn’t leave on a whim. Months before, he had already started living mostly on the road—traveling across Europe, running workshops, consulting, writing, editing, and organizing conferences. His apartment in Freiburg, Germany—a charming city nestled at the foot of the Black Forest—had become little more than a pit stop. It held a desk, an empty fridge, a few clothes, and a shelf full of books. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t happiness.

Though the city was beautiful, he felt detached from it. It offered him calm and focus, but not the emotional refuge he quietly sought. He often worked from early morning to late night, driven by a strong creative force, yet the silence and stillness around him were deafening. So, in October, he closed the door behind him for the last time. He had no new apartment, no set destination—only a full calendar of workshops, a laptop, a few chargers, and a perfectly sized suitcase weighing 24.5kg.

Most of what he owned was given away—to shelters, to friends, to family. What remained fit into a couple of boxes: old notebooks, documents, lanyards, photos, and drives. These were the physical traces of his journey so far—proof of who he was and what he valued. And yet, as he looked back, there wasn’t a single object he missed. His identity wasn’t in those things. It was in his thoughts, his memories, his connections, and his curiosity about what lay ahead.

From that point forward, he ran a creative experiment: no permanent home, one suitcase, and the freedom to roam from place to place. He sought out meaningful conversations, surrounded himself with inspiring people, and worked from cafés, Airbnbs, and remote locations, often offline but focused. The lack of routine sharpened his discipline. Travel became not just a lifestyle, but a framework for productivity and personal growth.

He wasn’t alone—and that changed everything. Having someone close, someone he cared about deeply, gave him emotional grounding. It gave his travel purpose. And often, it gave him just enough motivation to sit down, order a cappuccino, and get great work done—whether in a snowy Swedish village, by the fireworks on Lake Geneva, or at a small café tucked behind Montmartre.

These months became the most productive and fulfilling of his recent life. He read more. He wrote more. He rediscovered old passions—stamp collecting, calligraphy, cartoons, art history. Surprisingly, airports, trains, and layovers became his most creative zones. And wherever he went, he had rich, spontaneous conversations with locals and strangers alike—conversations that left lasting impressions and helped him understand what life in each city truly felt like.

As he crossed borders—Freiburg → Vilnius → Bucharest → Oslo → Athens → Munich → Amsterdam → Paris → and beyond—he and his companion searched quietly for a place they might one day call “home.” Not just a pretty location, but one with soul: good people, good coffee, good Wi-Fi, and good energy. Maybe such a place exists. Maybe there are many. But the journey itself became a path to self-discovery.

Lessons from the Road

He learned, he failed, and he discovered:

The most meaningful part of travel isn’t the architecture or the views—it’s the people you meet and the conversations you have.
Being “homeless” by choice makes for great conversation starters—though not always with airport security.
Learning how to fold shirts efficiently, organize a backpack, and avoid dodgy hotel irons can save hours of stress.
Booking transport and essentials online in advance saves money and headaches.
Carry multiple bank cards. At least one will be flagged or blocked while traveling.
Avoid foreign currency purchases whenever possible—international fees add up quickly.
A good European SIM card plan makes a world of difference. So does a world adapter and backup plugs.
TripAdvisor and Foursquare are no match for local recommendations.
Productivity on the road demands structure: some days for sightseeing, others for focused work in cafés. Always ask before setting up a laptop—and order more than one coffee.
Morning exercise—even in a hotel gym you’re not technically staying at—can set the tone for the day.
Scandinavian and Baltic countries tend to have the best Wi-Fi. Sync your large files there.
Airbnb, Twitter connections, and long-stay discounts can make travel affordable.
A consistent packing-unpacking routine helps. Stay at least five to six days per location to avoid burnout.
Airlines differ in how they treat luggage. If your suitcase weighs too much, move shoes to your carry-on.
Public transport is almost always cheaper than airport taxis. Do the research in advance.
Disable cookies and clear cache when buying tickets. Prices rise based on your location and search history.
Arrive early at the airport. Use the quiet time before boarding to get work done.

In the End

Not everyone can afford to live on the road—but some can. And for those who can, the rewards go far beyond photos and passport stamps. They include a deeper understanding of yourself, your needs, your values, and the people who bring meaning into your life.

Sometimes, closing a door is the only way to open something bigger. And when you finally find that place where you feel ready to stop and stay, you’ll arrive there not just with stories and experiences—but with clarity, direction, and friendships that will stand the test of time.