'H' 'e' 'l' 'l' 'o'
Back in the day, sending a simple "Hello" on my old cell phone was like playing an advanced version of Morse code. Each letter was a mini adventure on the numeric keypad. I'd start the journey by tapping '4' twice – a light tap-tap, pause, envisioning the 'H' popping up on the tiny screen. Next, '3' needed its share of attention, a double tap for the 'e'. Ah, but then came the 'l's, the true test of patience. Tap '5', wait, tap again, wait, and tap one more time – that's one 'l' down. Repeat the whole dance again for the second 'l'. By the time I got to '6' for the 'o', tapping it thrice felt like a little victory.
Most phones didn't have a feature for taking notes. But considering how tedious it was to type even a simple message, it's understandable no one was missing it. We stuck to what was manageable – quick texts and the occasional 'LOL' – and left the note-taking to the good old pen and paper.
So, when I packed my bags for a trek in the Himalayas, my old cell phone came along for the ride. I took it 'just in case,' though I wasn't exactly sure what emergency would justify the astronomical roaming charges. It sat buried deep in my backpack, more of a comforting thought than a practical tool. For the real business of recording my journey, I relied on something far more tangible and less tedious to use: a black hard-cover notebook.
At 3300 meters, high above the world in a Himalayan hostel, I found a quiet spot in the cafe area to settle with my morning ritual. The warmth of the fresh chai in my hands contrasted with the crisp mountain air. I opened my black hard-cover notebook, and began to jot down my thoughts.
But then, mid-sentence, I stopped. My pen hovered over the page as something caught my attention. It wasn’t the majestic view of the mountains or the usual buzz of the hostel; it was something else, something that starkly contrasted with my analog approach to capturing memories.
My gaze drifted to a man by the window, comfortably seated at what was undoubtedly the best spot in the cafe, offering a commanding view of the mountains. He reached into the deep pockets of his utility vest, first pulling out a Palm Pilot, then a foldable keyboard. With a practiced ease, he unfolded the keyboard on the table, revealing a slot into which he expertly slid the Palm Pilot.
What is a Palm Pilot? It was the Lamborghini of handheld devices, resembling what we might now see as a bulky prototype of a future smartphone (keep in mind, this was 6-7 years before the first iPhone made its debut). Though it couldn't make phone calls, the Palm Pilot boasted a range of features that were revolutionary at the time. It had a modest-sized screen, a calendar to manage appointments, a variety of games, and yes, even a note-taking app.
Using the Palm Pilot's note-taking app was an experience in itself. You had to use a stylus, carefully writing out each letter one at a time on its touchscreen. Despite this seeming limitation, using the device felt like operating a high-end luxury car. It wasn't just about the functionality; it was the speed, the elegance of its design, and, not to forget, its price tag. Witnessing someone use a Palm Pilot with a portable keyboard in the remote Himalayas was like watching magic squared.
I didn't long for the money to afford such a device. Instead, what I truly envied was the freedom it represented – the ability to break free from being tied to a specific location. It was the notion of boundless mobility that captivated me, not the gadget itself. The real dream was being able to write "Hello world" from anywhere.
The clock strikes five
She stood up suddenly, breaking the usual stillness of our office. As she headed for the door, her chair spun a little in her wake. Her regular, precise exit was like clockwork – always at 5 PM, never a minute later. We, a small band of programmers, watched this daily ritual from our corner, a nest of screens and scattered coffee cups.
There was something amusing about it, almost like watching a scene from an old movie where everyone's life is timed to the second. We glanced at our own screens, confirming the time: 5:00 PM on the dot. It was like she was programmed to leave with the precision of the systems we coded daily. In that moment, she seemed less like a colleague and more like a symbol of the very thing we had escaped - a slave to the job and the clock, bound by a routine that dictated her every move.
As the door shut behind our punctual colleague, we shared a knowing look. It was our daily signal to shift gears. I reached for the old stereo we had salvaged from a throw-away pile, and I pressed play. The quirky, electronic beats of Orbital’s “Halcyon On and On” filled the room, a 90s anthem that somehow became our unofficial soundtrack. It was niche, a little weird, but so were we.
We were your typical nerds - a bunch of programmers who got excited about coding and solving tough puzzles. We kicked off our shoes, embracing that nerdy stereotype. There’s something fun about being the kind of people who work better barefoot, and we totally embraced it.
Our corner of the office was less a workspace and more a haven for free thought and creativity - cluttered, chaotic, and undeniably ours. Amidst the tangle of wires and stacks of books on programming, an extra-sized family pizza box sat on a side table from a few days back. It wasn’t just about being different for the sake of it. We had earned our stripes, or rather, our freedom. We were trusted to take on the task of developing a government portal - a job that came with its fair share of headaches and all-nighters. We could work in our own way because they trusted us to get things done.
You know the feeling of getting up just before ten, leisurely making a cup of coffee, and taking it out to the balcony – admittedly, it's a really small balcony, but it does the job. Standing there, sipping your coffee, you watch the people in the floors above going about their morning routines. There's a sense of peace in this moment, a feeling of having all the time in the world. For a moment, I pondered skipping work for the day, but the thought of finishing the header of our portal with a new, exciting technology pulled me back to reality.
You may be familiar with this feeling now, but back then, it was a rare luxury. While I was enjoying my coffee on the balcony, most people were already seated at their desks in their offices. My friend used to call them "the ants.". The ants are going to work. They moved in a steady stream, each person a tiny part of a larger, busier world, while I observed from above.
Reflecting on it now, it might come off as a bit arrogant. I never actually called those office workers 'ants' out loud. It was more of an amusing thought I kept to myself during my walks to the office. This idea was my little secret, bringing a subtle smile to my face as I moved through the busy morning crowds. I wasn't aware of just how lucky I was. To me, it felt like the natural way of things, the way life was supposed to be.
By the time I arrived at the office, the woman was already there, settled at her desk. Throughout the six weeks of the project, I never actually learned her name. We didn't exchange even a single word with each other. Our worlds, it seemed, were parallel but never intersecting.
Ruby's Roast
At the breakfast table, there is quite a diverse gathering: an Italian cappuccino, a French croissant, an American notebook, and an ordinary sheet of A4 paper, probably made in China. Yet, upon closer inspection, this paper is anything but ordinary. It's printed full of letters and stranger characters, resembling a sample page from a printer. To the uninitiated eye, these markings might look like hieroglyphs, a mysterious array of symbols without meaning. However, to the person at the table, they are far from cryptic. In fact, they are the source code of a program. And that person, deciphering these characters with a knowing eye, is none other than me.
Printing a program's code on paper is typically a bad idea. Some books used to do this, perhaps to give them a thicker and more serious appearance. But it's a fundamentally flawed concept. Source code is full of empty spaces; many lines consist of nothing more than a solitary curly brace. Navigating through source code on paper is impractical – you have to continuously turn pages, unable to jump to specific sections or scroll through lines, as you would on a computer.
However, the programming language K is an exception to this rule due to its remarkable conciseness. A single sheet of paper with a K program printed on it can accomplish what would take 20 pages in another language.
So here I am, sitting in the cafe Ruby's Roast, looking out over Lake Garda, and actually getting some work done. I study the sheet of paper in front of me, full of K code. As I go through it, I spot a misplaced percent sign. I quickly circle it with my pen. Then, an idea for a better way to do something comes to me. I open my notebook and write down a new, simpler line of code. If you knew how much I'm getting paid for this focused, yet seemingly effortless task, you'd be green with envy.
This story, as vivid and sexy as it is, never actually happened. It was more of a dream, a vision I had for the kind of work I wanted to do. Then came the era of portable laptops, followed by ones you could actually carry around. And now, here I am, coding on a laptop in a cafe, a reality not too far off from my dream. It's true I'm working with different programming languages, ones that require a bit more scrolling.
The bare essentials of thinking
I step into the bathhouse. At the cloakroom, they hand me a white apron made of simple canvas, like it’s cut from an old bedsheet. It's plain and straightforward. I like that I don't need to bring a swimsuit. I can come here on a whim, without any preparation.
I change into the apron, leaving my clothes in the locker. The apron covers just the front and leaves my bottom bare. It feels a bit unusual, but here, it’s part of the ritual. As I immerse myself in the steaming water, I'm surrounded by other men, each in their own contemplative state. The bathhouse operates on separate days for men and women, and today, it's a male-only sanctuary.
The thought does cross my mind, briefly, that being approached by a gay man might feel strange with my exposed state. But that worry fades quickly; I know that the gay community frequents a different bath. Here, it's just a gathering of men, each lost in their own thoughts.
There's a relief, too, in the absence of women. Not because of any discomfort, but rather it spares me the unconscious act of watching them, something almost automatic. In their absence, the space becomes free of any sexual undertones, a neutral ground where the mind can wander without distraction.
This bathhouse, with its simple canvas aprons and gender-specific days, becomes a place devoid of sexuality for me. It's a rare environment where the usual dynamics of attraction and distraction are absent.
I slide into the hot water, feeling the canvas apron lift and float around me. My eyes are drawn to the familiar sign by the pool's edge, noting the water's temperature and the warning not to stay in longer than 10 minutes. It's a gentle rule, one that everyone here seems to ignore.
You might think that I'm in this hot bath just to relax and let my mind wander without purpose. But that's far from the truth. In these moments, immersed in the heat, I'm actually doing some of my hardest work. The warm water has a way of loosening not just my muscles, but also the rigid structures that programming in Java imposes on my mind. Here, in this steamy, soothing environment, my thoughts are free to roam.
This isn't work in the traditional sense – I'm not laying bricks or mechanically typing out lines of code. Yet, this is where a crucial part of my work unfolds. As I soak, my mind tackles the problems I've been grappling with, contemplating different approaches and solutions. The actual coding, the typing of line after line, is the easy part. It's in this bath, with my mind softened by the warmth, that the real challenge is met – figuring out what those lines of code should be.
Just a few meters away, I overhear the conversation between two guys discussing some sort of construction project. One is talking about plans to rebuild a hotel in the countryside, while the other mentions a business opportunity linked to it. Their words blend into the background noise of the bathhouse. I'm not actively listening, their discussion floating in and out of my awareness as I focus on my own thoughts.
This moment reinforces a powerful realization: I don't rely on anything in the physical world to do my work. The beauty of my profession is that I can work anywhere, as all I need is my brain. I don't require a computer in front of me or people around to bounce ideas off. It's just me and my thoughts. I step into a world inhabited with data structures and links, where I shift pieces of information from one place to another. In this world of changing data, I don't even need an apron.
The New Special
I used to think I just wanted the freedom to work from anywhere. But I also liked that not many people could do it – it made me feel special. Now, with so many digital nomads and remote jobs, it's not that unique anymore. It's time for me to find something new to make me feel special again.
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