There’s something undeniably seductive about the idea. A palm-lined enclave, fast permits, low taxes, no bureaucrats asking for forms in triplicate, and a Bitcoin ATM humming quietly next to your oat milk latte. A place where you can build, test, implant, inject, disrupt—without someone from a ministry showing up with a clipboard and a “no.”

Welcome to Próspera, as recently profiled by Business Insider, with reporting originally from Die Welt. A private city on the Honduran island of Roatán that aspires to be less a place and more a proposition: what if the state were optional?

At first glance, it looks like the kind of place Nomag readers should love. Remote. Exotic. Built for entrepreneurs, digital nomads, and people who use “sovereignty” both in legal and personal terms. A frontier, but with Wi-Fi. Or at least, that’s the pitch.

We’re not buying it. And not for the reasons you might expect.

The fantasy: frictionless living, on demand

The Próspera model is simple in theory and radical in implication. Step past the guarded barrier and you’re no longer really in Honduras. You’re in a privately run jurisdiction where rules are set by a corporation, taxes are minimal, and governance is, effectively, a product.

Need a building permit? Two weeks.
Want to test biotech on yourself? Sure, sign here.
Prefer Bitcoin to banks? There’s a machine for that.

It’s the logical extension of platform thinking. If Uber unbundled transport and Airbnb unbundled hospitality, Próspera tries to unbundle the state itself.

Citizenship becomes a subscription. Rights become services. Regulation becomes optional—if you can price the risk.

It’s not entirely new. Libertarian thinkers like Peter Thiel have been arguing for years that democracy and freedom are not necessarily aligned, and that the future might belong to “network states” and private jurisdictions competing for residents.

Próspera is what happens when that PowerPoint becomes concrete.

The reality: a startup, not a society

Here’s the first crack in the narrative: Próspera isn’t a city. It’s an early-stage startup with better branding.

Around 200 residents. A few hundred registered companies. A handful of buildings aligned along a single road. A coworking space with slogans like “Make Death Optional” and “Tax is Theft.” A construction site with ambition far ahead of execution.

This is not urbanism. It’s a pitch deck you can walk through.

And like many pitch decks, it quietly skips over the boring but essential layers that make places livable: infrastructure resilience, public accountability, social cohesion, long-term governance.

Electricity? Unstable.
Internet? Surprisingly fragile (hello, Starlink dish).
Legal status? Actively contested—Honduras repealed the framework that allowed Próspera to exist in the first place.

You can disrupt a market. You can’t beta-test a society in the same way.

The uncomfortable bit: freedom for whom?

Próspera sells itself as a haven for builders. And to be fair, it is—if you’re the kind of builder who is constrained elsewhere.

Biotech startups testing gene therapies on healthy humans.
Crypto firms operating in regulatory grey zones.
Biohackers implanting chips and magnets into their bodies.

This is not accidental. It’s the core value proposition: come here to do what you can’t do elsewhere.

And that’s exactly where the unease starts.

Because when you strip away regulation, you’re not just removing inefficiency. You’re also removing safeguards. The same system that allows faster innovation also enables higher risk—sometimes existential risk.

The Próspera logic is brutally consistent: if an insurer is willing to underwrite it, it’s acceptable. Ethics becomes actuarial.

That might work for a niche group of highly informed, well-capitalized individuals. It’s less convincing as a model for broader society.

The political elephant in the room

There’s another layer that the glossy narrative tends to downplay: sovereignty isn’t just a technicality.

Próspera exists because a relatively poor country allowed parts of its territory to be governed differently, in exchange for investment. That arrangement has already been challenged and partially dismantled by Honduran institutions.

Critics—like academic Sarah Moser, quoted in the reporting—go further, calling the project a form of modern colonialism: a profit-driven enclave with limited ties to the local population.

That’s not just ideological pushback. It’s a structural vulnerability.

If your “country” depends on the political tolerance of another country that has already changed its mind once, you’re not sovereign. You’re temporary.

The Nomag problem: this isn’t belonging

Here’s where it gets interesting for us.

On paper, Próspera ticks all the Nomag boxes: remote work, international community, alternative living, escape from broken systems.

But scratch the surface and it reveals something fundamentally different from what we’ve been advocating for years.

Nomadism, at its best, is about integration without assimilation. It’s about entering places, understanding them, contributing to them, and—yes—benefiting from them, but within a shared framework.

Próspera flips that logic. It’s not about engaging with a place. It’s about bypassing it.

It creates a parallel layer that floats above the local reality, selectively interacting with it when convenient. The ultimate expat bubble—just formalized, legalized, and scaled.

That’s not a village. It’s an interface.

Speed vs. depth

There’s one argument that keeps coming up in Próspera’s favor: speed.

Two weeks for permits instead of four years.
Immediate execution instead of endless negotiation.
Momentum instead of stagnation.

And yes, that matters. Anyone who has tried to build anything in parts of Europe knows exactly how suffocating bureaucracy can be.

But speed without depth is just acceleration toward an unknown outcome.

Cities—and communities—are slow by design. Not because they’re inefficient, but because they’re layered. Every rule, every friction point, every negotiation is the result of competing interests being balanced over time.

Remove that, and you don’t just remove friction. You remove memory.

So… is this the future?

Probably, in some form. The idea of modular governance, regulatory competition, and more flexible residency models isn’t going away.

But Próspera, as it stands, feels less like the future and more like an experiment conducted by a very specific demographic, for a very specific set of use cases.

It’s a lab. Not a blueprint.

And labs are useful—but only if you’re clear about what you’re testing, and who bears the cost when things go wrong.

Final thought: the illusion of exit

The most compelling promise behind projects like Próspera is the idea of exit.

If systems don’t work, you leave. If states fail, you build new ones. If rules constrain you, you opt out.

It’s an appealing narrative. Especially for people who have the means to move, invest, and choose.

But the reality is messier. You can exit bureaucracy. You can exit taxation. You can even, temporarily, exit regulation.

What you can’t fully exit is interdependence.

At some point, every “private paradise” runs into the same question: what happens when the outside world pushes back?

History suggests the answer is rarely as frictionless as the brochure.

There was a time when booking a Spirit Airlines flight felt like a small act of rebellion against the system. You would open the app, stare at a fare that looked almost absurd, and convince yourself that even if everything went wrong, it was still worth it. That was the deal Spirit made with its passengers: we will get you there, somehow, and you will accept the rest as part of the experience.

Now there is no experience left to negotiate. Spirit has shut down, abruptly and without ceremony, after failing to secure a $500 million federal bailout. Flights cancelled, operations wound down, passengers told not to even show up at the airport. Not a slow decline, not a managed transition, but a hard stop. From Spirit to ghost, almost overnight.

America’s version of low-cost, pushed to the edge

For many travellers in the United States, Spirit played the same psychological role that Ryanair, easyJet or Wizz Air have long played in Europe. It represented access, possibility, and a slightly chaotic version of freedom, built on the idea that moving across the map should not be a luxury.

The difference, however, is structural. In Europe, low-cost airlines are not an exception but a system. They are integrated into how people think about distance, time and opportunity. In the United States, the same model has always existed in a more fragile equilibrium, stretched across longer routes, fewer alternative airports, and a market that oscillates between price sensitivity and service expectations in ways that are not always predictable.

Spirit did not just operate as a low-cost airline. It pushed the concept to its most extreme version, stripping the experience down to its bare minimum and monetising everything else with a level of aggressiveness that made even its European counterparts look relatively restrained. That model works beautifully when conditions are stable, and collapses quickly when they are not.

The official explanation is fuel

The narrative presented is straightforward. Rising fuel costs, accelerated by geopolitical tensions and the Iran war, eroded margins that were already thin. A business that survives on precision suddenly found itself exposed to volatility it could not absorb. Without fresh capital, the outcome became inevitable.

Yet this explanation, while accurate, is incomplete. Spirit had been under pressure for years, accumulating losses, restructuring, cutting routes and reducing its workforce in an attempt to stay afloat. By the time discussions around a government-backed rescue began, the airline was not looking for growth capital but for a lifeline. Even that proved too ambitious.

The proposed bailout, which would have given the U.S. government a dominant stake, failed to convince key financial players, including firms such as Citadel and Ares Management, that the underlying business could be stabilised in a meaningful way. When capital loses confidence, the timeline accelerates, and what looked like a restructuring scenario becomes a shutdown within days.

What disappears when an airline like this disappears

It is tempting to treat the collapse of a budget airline as a marginal event, something that affects only the most price-sensitive segment of the market. That interpretation misses the broader impact.

Spirit was not simply selling cheap tickets. It was lowering the threshold for movement. It allowed people to make decisions quickly, to explore options without overcommitting, to treat geography as something flexible rather than fixed. In that sense, it quietly contributed to a culture of mobility that extended far beyond tourism.

When an airline like this disappears, the immediate effect is not a dramatic halt in travel but a subtle shift in behaviour. Costs increase slightly, friction returns, spontaneity becomes less accessible. The system still functions, but it becomes marginally less fluid.

The quiet impact on digital nomads in the U.S.

For digital nomads based in the United States, this shift is more relevant than it might initially appear. The American version of location independence has always been more complex than its European counterpart, partly because the infrastructure supporting short-distance, low-cost movement is less developed.

Spirit filled a specific gap. It enabled rapid, low-risk relocation within the country, making it easier to test cities, split time between locations, or respond quickly to opportunities. Without that layer, mobility does not disappear, but it becomes more deliberate, slightly more expensive, and less impulsive.

This matters because a large part of the nomadic mindset relies on optionality. The ability to move easily is not just a logistical advantage; it is a psychological one. When movement becomes more structured, the entire experience shifts, even if only by degrees.

From ghost to something else

Airlines rarely vanish completely. Assets are redistributed, routes are absorbed, and fragments of the original operation often reappear in new forms. It is likely that parts of Spirit will survive in this way, integrated into larger carriers or repurposed under different strategies.

What is less certain is whether the specific version of ultra-low-cost that Spirit embodied will return in the same form. The model depended on a set of conditions that no longer seem as stable as they once were, and the margin for error has proven to be extremely narrow.

There is always the possibility of a phoenix moment, a reconfiguration that brings the brand or its philosophy back in a more sustainable way. At the same time, the industry has a long history of quietly moving on from models that pushed too far, too fast.

Final thought

Spirit built its identity on a simple promise: movement should be accessible, even if comfort is optional. For a while, that promise held. It expanded horizons, enabled decisions, and reshaped expectations around travel within the United States.

Its disappearance does not signal the end of low-cost flying, nor does it fundamentally alter the structure of the market. What it does is remove one of the most extreme expressions of that idea, leaving behind a slightly more cautious landscape.

For anyone building a life that depends on movement, whether occasionally or continuously, the lesson is not dramatic but it is real. Freedom of mobility is never entirely abstract. It is built on systems that can, under pressure, disappear faster than expected.

There is a very specific kind of content that performs extremely well online: lists that promise freedom with minimal friction. “Best countries for digital nomads.” “Top visas to work from anywhere.” “Zero tax destinations you can move to tomorrow.” They all share the same underlying assumption — that mobility is a hack, and that with the right combination of visa, Wi-Fi, and optimism, you can operate outside the system.

The analysis by Nagy Szabolcs Cristopher for Investment Migration Insider — which you can read in full here — does something more interesting. It dismantles that assumption quietly, without trying to sell you an alternative fantasy.

At its core, the article is not about visas. It is about jurisdiction. And more specifically, about the moment in which a country decides that you are no longer a visitor, but a taxable presence.

The 183-Day Illusion

The piece opens with a reality that should be obvious, yet is consistently ignored in most mainstream narratives: tax systems are not confused by your lifestyle. They are structured around time, presence, and economic connection. The so-called “183-day rule” is not a guideline; it is the backbone of how states assert fiscal control.

Stay long enough, and your income — even if generated elsewhere — becomes relevant.

What the IMI analysis does well is isolate a small subset of digital nomad visas that either bypass this rule entirely, neutralize it through legal design, or make it irrelevant by changing the underlying tax logic. This is not a list of “best places.” It is a map of exceptions.

Four Ways Countries Bend the Rules

If you read the article carefully, the fifteen visas it covers are not random. They fall into four distinct models, each representing a different way for countries to attract mobile income without fully absorbing it into their tax base.

The first model is the most straightforward: jurisdictions that simply do not tax personal income. The United Arab Emirates, Anguilla, Antigua and Barbuda — these are not clever policy experiments, but structural decisions. There is no need to engineer exemptions when the tax does not exist. In these environments, the question of residency becomes almost irrelevant, because there is nothing to trigger. It is the cleanest solution on paper, and often the least nuanced in practice.

The second model is more surgical. Countries like Croatia, Costa Rica, Barbados or Curaçao operate within traditional tax systems but create explicit carve-outs for remote workers. You are allowed to stay, sometimes beyond the usual thresholds, but your foreign income is treated as if it were not there. This is not a loophole but a deliberate legal fiction, written into the visa framework itself. The underlying message is clear: you are welcome to contribute as a consumer, but not expected to integrate as a producer.

The third model shifts the perspective entirely. Territorial tax systems — as seen in Panama, Malaysia, Seychelles or Mauritius — do not need to exempt foreign income because they never tax it in the first place. In these jurisdictions, becoming a tax resident is not necessarily a problem. The real question becomes what is considered “local” versus “foreign,” and how that boundary is defined. It is a more sophisticated framework, but also one that requires a deeper understanding to navigate properly.

The fourth model is almost minimalist. Short-stay visas, such as Japan’s six-month digital nomad permit, simply avoid the issue by design. You cannot trigger tax residency because you are not allowed to stay long enough. It is an elegant solution, but also a temporary one, built for movement rather than settlement.

What the List Gets Right — and Where It Stops

The strength of the IMI piece lies in its precision. It strips away the usual lifestyle narrative and replaces it with legal structure. It also makes a critical point that is often buried in fine print: none of these visas eliminate your obligations in your home country. For some, like U.S. citizens, global taxation remains unavoidable. For others, exiting a domestic tax system is a formal process, not an automatic consequence of relocation.

This alone should be enough to reframe the conversation.

And yet, there is a natural limitation to this kind of analysis. By focusing on tax exposure, it risks suggesting that once the fiscal problem is solved, the decision is complete. That is where reality becomes less cooperative.

The Missing Variable: Life

What rarely appears in these lists is the friction that begins after the visa is approved.

The jurisdictions that offer the cleanest tax outcomes are not always the ones where people build sustainable routines. Infrastructure, healthcare, connectivity, community, legal stability — these factors do not show up in a tax table, but they define the experience over time. A zero-tax environment can quickly become irrelevant if everything else feels temporary, fragile, or disconnected.

Conversely, many of the places dismissed as “tax-heavy” — Southern Europe being the obvious example — continue to attract long-term residents not because they are fiscally optimal, but because they function as environments. They offer density, continuity, and a sense of place that cannot be replicated by policy alone.

This is where the mainstream narrative tends to collapse. It treats destinations as interchangeable variables in a global equation, when in reality they represent entirely different models of living.

Mobility as Strategy, Not Escape

What emerges from a closer reading of the IMI analysis is not a list of opportunities, but a set of choices about how you position yourself within — not outside — existing systems.

Each visa reflects a different intention. Some are designed for short-term presence, others for controlled engagement, others still for long-term planning under specific conditions. None of them are neutral. All of them assume a certain type of user.

The problem is that many people approach these tools with a different objective in mind. They are not looking for temporary optimization, but for a stable base. And that mismatch creates the kind of frustration that no visa can resolve.

Avoiding tax residency is a technical outcome. Building a life is a structural one.

Final Thought

The value of this analysis is not in the fifteen visas it lists, but in the framework it reveals. It forces a shift from “where should I go?” to “what system am I entering, and on what terms?”

Once you ask that question, the conversation changes. The goal is no longer to find the place where nothing applies, but to choose the place where the trade-offs make sense.

Because in the end, the real risk is not paying too much tax.

It is optimizing for the wrong variable entirely.

There was a time—not even that long ago—when being a digital nomad meant operating in a comfortable grey zone. You had your laptop, your Slack notifications, your Airbnb, and a quiet understanding that what you were doing might not perfectly align with the visa stamped in your passport.

Nobody really asked too many questions.

That phase is ending.

And if you want a clear signal of where things are going, it’s worth reading the “Digital Nomad Report – An Introduction” (March 2026) by the International Bar Association’s Global Employment Institute, authored by Jelle Kroes with contributions from Ann Harten and Marco Mazzeschi.

The full report is available here.

It’s not a flashy document. No bold claims, no hype. But precisely for that reason, it’s one of the most useful snapshots we have right now of what digital nomadism actually looks like once you remove the Instagram filters and start looking at the legal infrastructure underneath.

And what emerges is less a revolution… and more a system trying—slowly, imperfectly—to catch up with reality.

The first uncomfortable truth: we still don’t know exactly who a digital nomad is

You’d think this would be the easy part.

It isn’t.

The report spends a surprising amount of time just trying to define the term. And even then, it lands on something that feels more like a working compromise than a clean definition.

Is a digital nomad someone who moves constantly? Or simply someone working remotely from a different country? Does freelancing count? What about someone who relocates for a year but keeps a foreign employer?

There are academic definitions, industry definitions, even behavioral criteria—like moving at least three times per year—but none of them fully capture the reality.

And this matters.

Because when policymakers don’t have a stable definition, what they produce isn’t a system. It’s a collection of approximations.

From workaround to policy: how we got here

For years, digital nomads weren’t really regulated—they were tolerated.

People worked remotely on tourist visas because there was no alternative that made sense. Governments, for the most part, looked the other way.

But as the numbers grew, the gap between reality and regulation became too obvious to ignore.

Digital nomad visas are the result of that tension.

They’re not a visionary invention. They’re a correction.

And yet… 60+ visas don’t make a system

On paper, the expansion is impressive: more than 60 countries now offer some form of digital nomad visa.

In practice, it’s a fragmented landscape.

The report’s survey of 34 jurisdictions shows just how inconsistent things are:

• A majority have a specific visa, but many still don’t

• Application processes vary widely (only a minority allow in-country applications)

• Durations range from short-term to multi-year permits

• Requirements differ not just in detail, but in philosophy

Even something as basic as “how hard is it to get one” is measured in broad categories like “low,” “medium,” and “high”—hardly a precise metric.

So yes, digital nomad visas exist.

But no, they don’t yet form a coherent global framework.

The rule that quietly defines everything

If there’s one principle that cuts across almost all schemes, it’s this:

You can live in the country.
But your economic engine must remain somewhere else.

Most digital nomad visas require that your income comes from outside the host country.

There are minor exceptions—Spain allowing limited local work, for instance—but they don’t change the underlying logic.

This isn’t about integrating workers into local economies.

It’s about attracting spending without creating labor competition.

In other words: long-term presence, without full participation.

Freedom, but structured

Another pattern that emerges from the report is something that doesn’t get talked about enough: structure.

Yes, many visas are classified as “easy” or “medium” difficulty.
But that doesn’t mean informal.

To qualify, you’re often expected to demonstrate:

• Stable and sufficient income

• A formal employment or contractual relationship

• Remote work authorization

• Health insurance and clean legal records

• In some cases, education or professional experience

This is no longer a lifestyle that lives in the margins.

It’s being formalized into a category with rules, thresholds, and expectations.

The subtle but decisive shift: from travel to residence

One of the most important insights in the report is almost hidden in plain sight.

Most digital nomad visas now last at least 12 months—and are often renewable.

That changes everything.

Because once you cross that threshold, you’re no longer just passing through.

You’re staying.

And staying comes with consequences: tax exposure, regulatory obligations, potential pathways (or barriers) to long-term residency.

At that point, the difference between a “digital nomad” and a “relocated professional” starts to blur.

An unfinished architecture

To its credit, the report doesn’t pretend to have all the answers.

It openly acknowledges the gaps:

• Limited data on applications and outcomes

• Incomplete information on rights (family reunification, citizenship paths)

• Lack of clarity on enforcement

• Significant variation across jurisdictions

What we’re looking at is not a finished system.

It’s a framework under construction.

Takeaway: the lifestyle isn’t disappearing. It’s being absorbed

If there’s one thing this report makes clear, it’s that digital nomadism isn’t fading.

It’s evolving.

What started as a loosely defined, semi-informal way of working is being gradually absorbed into formal legal, tax, and immigration systems.

That process is messy. It’s inconsistent. And in many cases, it’s still incomplete.

But it’s happening.

And that leads to a simple, slightly uncomfortable conclusion:

The future of digital nomadism won’t be less regulated. It will be better regulated.

Which, depending on how you look at it, is either the end of the fantasy…

or the beginning of something more sustainable.

Alright, the uncomfortable truth first: if The Office were made today, it wouldn’t just be “remote.” It would be fragmented, over-optimized, slightly performative… and somehow even more absurd. The Scranton branch wasn’t inefficient - it was human. Remote work doesn’t remove that. It just relocates the chaos into Wi-Fi signals, Slack threads, and people pretending their life is a Notion dashboard.

So here’s the thought experiment - long, slightly unhinged, and probably too accurate.

After this article our ChatGPT had to go to rehab.

The branch is gone. Or rather, it exists everywhere and nowhere.

Dunder Mifflin is now “Dunder Mifflin Cloud Solutions (formerly paper, now vibes).” Nobody really knows what they sell anymore. Something about “document ecosystems.” The sales team is spread between Lisbon, Bali, and someone’s parents’ house in New Jersey.

Meetings happen on Zoom.
Work happens on Slack.
Real decisions happen in private WhatsApp groups.

And somehow… nothing gets done faster.

Michael Scott → The Remote Thought Leader™

Michael is still the boss. Unfortunately.

But now he’s a “Remote Leadership Evangelist” with a weekly LinkedIn newsletter called “That’s What I Lead.”
He starts every all-hands with: “Guys, I don’t see you as employees… I see you as Wi-Fi connections with dreams.”

He has:

• a podcast nobody finishes

• a course nobody asked for

• and a ring light that has seen things

He thinks muting people is a sign of respect.

Jim Halpert → The Passive-Aggressive Content Creator

Jim no longer pranks Dwight in person. That would require effort.

Instead, he:

• reacts silently on Zoom

• drops sarcastic comments in Slack threads

• and runs a surprisingly successful YouTube channel:
  “Corporate Minimalism: Doing Less, Better”

His greatest prank? Convincing everyone he’s “offline” while watching everything.

Pam Beesly → Freelance Everything, Emotionally Stable (Finally)

Pam escaped.

She’s now:

• a freelance designer

• an Etsy shop owner

• and the only person who actually understands what the company does

She works from cafés, replies late, and is quietly the most successful one.

She still fixes everyone’s presentations. She just invoices now.

Dwight Schrute → Survivalist, Crypto Farmer, Zero Chill

Dwight never went remote. The world went Dwight.

He runs:

• Schrute Farms (now “regenerative agriculture DAO”)

• a side hustle in crypto

• and a private server nobody understands

His Zoom background is real.
His threats are still realer.

Stanley Hudson → Professionally Retired, Spiritually Done

Stanley logs in once a week. Maybe.

He’s technically:

• “Consulting”

• reviewing resorts on TripAdvisor

• and posting passive-aggressive wisdom on LinkedIn

His camera is always off.
His patience has been off since 2007.

Kevin Malone → Accidental Fintech Guru

Kevin discovered finance.

No one knows how.

He now:

• talks about ETFs

• runs a TikTok giving financial advice

• and still doesn’t understand numbers

Somehow… he’s making money.

Andy Bernard → Personal Brand in Crisis

Andy is now a:

• life coach

• retreat organizer

• and full-time singer during Zoom calls

Nobody asked for the singing.

Everybody mutes him.

Creed Bratton → Dropshipping Legend (Probably Illegal)

Creed has:

• three online businesses

• zero legal structure

• and possibly no identity

He sells things that don’t exist.
Or maybe they do. Nobody checks.

Toby Flenderson → HR, But Make It Mindfulness

Toby rebranded as a “Workplace Wellbeing Specialist.”

He hosts:

• burnout webinars

• breathing sessions

• and still gets ignored

Even remotely… people find a way to avoid him.

Darryl Philbin → The Only One Who Actually Built Something

Darryl left. Built a business. Scaled it.

He now:

• runs a global e-commerce operation

• actually understands remote teams

• and occasionally jumps on calls just to say:
  “You’re all overcomplicating this.”

He’s right.

New Characters (Because Remote Work Creates New Species)

• The Digital Nomad SDR: always “circling back” from a beach

• The Remote HR Lead: schedules calls about scheduling calls

• The Async Intern: brilliant, invisible, possibly a myth

• The AI Assistant: does 80% of the work, gets 0% of the credit

So… Better or Worse?

Here’s the twist:

Remote didn’t fix The Office. It just removed the walls.

The awkwardness is still there.
The ego is still there.
The need for validation? Stronger than ever.

What changed is the aesthetic:

• cleaner desks

• nicer backgrounds

• worse boundaries

Back then, people escaped the office by going home.
Now, the office followed them there.

And if you think Michael Scott wouldn’t thrive in that environment…
you haven’t spent enough time on LinkedIn.

Today, our Editor-in-Chief stepped into the debate on Italy’s potential for digital nomads. As usual, not exactly quietly.

Esco quando voglio

Nomadi digitali in Italia: se ne parla sempre di più e (quasi) sempre a sproposito.

Il Sole 24 Ore di oggi ne parla facendo un po’ di ordine - e ci prende su quasi tutti i punti che fa emergere - ma resta un problema di fondo…

Read more

8 days ago · 4 likes · Matteo Cerri

It’s good that digital nomads are finally being discussed in Italy by a newspaper like Il Sole 24 Ore. Actually, let’s say it properly: it’s a very good thing. Not because the topic has been ignored — quite the opposite, everyone talks about digital nomads these days, often throwing around global numbers with the same level of accuracy used when ordering the “house wine” in a tourist restaurant — but because when a major financial publication gives it proper space, it means something has shifted in how the topic is perceived.

It’s also fair to say that the article published today, written by Camilla Colombo and Camilla Curcio, is not the usual decorative piece with a laptop on the beach, a cappuccino with a view, and the tired “work from anywhere” narrative that should have been retired around 2017. The piece tries to address real issues: bureaucracy, visas, taxation, competition from Spain and Portugal, the need for proper services, communities, infrastructure, housing solutions, and an environment that doesn’t turn every arrival into a personal endurance test.

That’s the positive side. And it deserves to be acknowledged.

The same goes for some of the people quoted in the article. Alberto Mattei, through the Italian Digital Nomads Association, has done more than most to move this conversation beyond clichés and into something more structured. Marco Traina, with BeetCommunity and the Palermo coliving experience, represents one of the few Italian paths that has gone beyond theory and actually tested what community, hospitality, and long stays look like in practice. Federica Origo, from the University of Bergamo, rightly highlights fiscal policy, bureaucracy, and the need to simplify access to incentives and systems. All valid points. All useful. All significantly more grounded than the usual promotional soup of sunset villages and “Wi-Fi is everywhere anyway” — a sentence that is usually followed by a dropped call, a desperate hotspot, and a multilingual moment of frustration.

And yet, here’s the point.

The article is better than most. But it still sits inside the way Italy finds convenient to talk about digital nomads.

We talk about them as an extension of remote working.
As long-term tourists.
As tax-driven expats.
As tools for territorial regeneration — something to be “distributed” where we have empty homes, declining towns, fragile local economies, and a quiet hope that the outside world will come and fix what we haven’t managed to make sustainable ourselves.

That’s where the narrative, even when well intentioned, starts to drift.

Because a digital nomad is not an Italian working remotely who simply moves from Milan to Lecce. Not an expat relocating with a long-term plan, kids, pets, and a relationship with the local school system. Not a tourist staying three months and therefore suddenly becoming economically “interesting” for any territory with a calendar of “authentic experiences.” And not necessarily the ideal candidate to repopulate the village we’ve decided to promote because it has empty houses, a beautiful view, and a very motivated local council.

A real digital nomad — someone who actually works while moving, not the version observed from a distance or hosted for a couple of weeks — is, first and foremost, someone who needs things to work.

Work needs to happen.
Clients need to be served.
Deadlines met.
Teams coordinated across time zones.
Payments handled.
Connections stable.
Housing reliable.
Daily life manageable.

They are not looking — at least not initially — for a territorial mission. They are looking for a place where they can arrive and not spend three weeks figuring out how to live, how to work, what things really cost, whether housing is designed for residents or priced to extract value from visitors, whether the internet actually holds up under pressure, whether there is a professional community or just a WhatsApp group and a couple of sunset drinks.

This is the difference Italy still struggles to put at the center.

We tend to start from what we want to offer, rather than from what a mobile professional actually needs. We have villages to regenerate, properties to fill, territories to promote, tax incentives to position, funding to unlock, narratives to build. All legitimate. But digital nomads are not here to solve our demographic gaps, our housing inefficiencies, or our storytelling ambitions.

They are not a stylish patch over decades of underinvestment in services, weak mobility systems, dysfunctional housing, opaque bureaucracy, and a national tendency to label inefficiency as “authenticity.”

And here, let’s be clear: I believe in villages. I work in them. I invest in them. I try to bring others into them. I’ve spent the last ten years moving across Italy’s internal areas, working on new residents, abandoned properties, distributed hospitality, returns, and international interest.

So this is not a critique of small towns.

Some of them can absolutely become extraordinary places for remote living. For those who want to build a life. For those willing to invest time, energy, and patience. For those who are looking for something long-term.

But that is not the same as digital nomadism.

There’s a difference between someone deciding to build a remote life in a place — buying, renovating, integrating — and a professional arriving for two months who needs things to work immediately, has no intention of becoming a test case, and certainly doesn’t want to pay short-term rental rates designed for tourists while living like a temporary resident.

This is where Italy’s offer often breaks down.

Because too often, what we offer is the equivalent of a house to renovate: full of potential, attractive on paper, but requiring time, adaptation, negotiation, and tolerance for friction. Elsewhere, what is offered is a ready-to-live apartment: maybe less poetic, maybe less “authentic,” sometimes even more expensive — but immediately functional.

And professionals choose functionality.

This is not about romance. It’s about operations.

Places like Lisbon, Barcelona, Valencia, Madeira, Chiang Mai, Bali, parts of Dubai — even certain cities in Eastern Europe — don’t work because they are more beautiful than Italy. Some of them clearly are not. They work because they reduce friction. You arrive, you find housing, you understand costs, you connect with people, you access services, you work, you stay, you leave — without having to explain your existence at every step.

Italy, on the other hand, often seduces brilliantly… and then leaves you alone with the complexity.

So yes, the article is right about bureaucracy, services, housing, and competitiveness.

But it still doesn’t fully address the core issue: Italy is not yet truly attractive for digital nomads because we haven’t fully understood who they are — and we keep treating them through categories that belong elsewhere.

We see them as tourists when we sell experiences.
As expats when we think taxation.
As remote workers when we discuss labour models.
As tools when we talk about regeneration.

Rarely as what they actually are: mobile, selective, time-sensitive professionals who have options — and know it.

This doesn’t mean Italy cannot compete. It absolutely can. But it needs to stop projecting its own desires onto a market that behaves differently.

The real question is not “how do we attract digital nomads?”

It’s “which digital nomads have a real reason to choose Italy today — and where can we offer something that works immediately, clearly, and consistently?”

Because in the end, that’s all that matters.

A note from the Editor-in-Chief

I’m not writing this as an observer.

I’ve been an entrepreneur abroad for 30 years, with London as a base but, in reality, always moving — suitcase in hand, even when Covid told us to stay put. Over the past ten years, I’ve spent a significant part of my time working across Italy on investments, new residents, hospitality, and regeneration projects, often in the very villages now being positioned as solutions.

Through ITS Italy, we currently run regeneration and relocation projects across more than 20 municipalities throughout the country. I’m not observing that world — I’m inside it.

At the same time, I increasingly experience Italy as a digital nomad myself, constantly moving across the country for work, testing firsthand what works — and what doesn’t.

Through Nomag, ITS Journal, We the Italians, Smart Working Magazine, and Esco quando voglio, we speak weekly to a combined audience of nearly 500,000 people across more than 100 countries.

This is not about being an “expert.”

It’s about seeing these dynamics play out in real time, every day.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s why it’s worth trying to bring the conversation back into focus.

There’s a very specific kind of lie the internet has been telling for the past decade.

It looks like freedom. It sounds like freedom. It photographs beautifully at golden hour.

It’s the idea that if you remove enough structure from your life—quit the job, ditch the city, buy the van, disappear into the desert—you’ll eventually arrive at something pure. Something essential. Something that feels like you.

And to be fair, for a while, that’s exactly what happens.

Homesick Nomad starts from that premise, but it refuses to stay there.

That’s what makes it interesting.

When the dream actually works

Brianna Madia is not writing from aspiration. She’s writing from completion.

She did the thing. She lived the version of life that most people only flirt with between two browser tabs and a mild identity crisis. The desert, the van, the dogs, the radical rejection of expectations—this is not aesthetic for her, it’s biography.

Which means the book doesn’t waste time convincing you that “another life is possible.” That conversation is over before it starts.

The real question begins after:

What happens when you get what you thought you wanted?

It’s a deceptively simple shift, but it changes everything. Because once the fantasy becomes reality, it stops being a fantasy. It becomes a system you have to live inside.

And systems, even the self-built ones, come with trade-offs.

The inconvenient return of attachment

The tension at the centre of the book is not wilderness versus society. That would be too easy.

It’s independence versus attachment.

Madia doesn’t drift back into “normal life” out of failure or exhaustion. She falls in love. She finds herself splitting time between the open desert and a more structured, domestic space. Not quite suburban surrender, but not pure escape either.

And suddenly, the narrative cracks.

Because the mythology of the untethered life has very little to say about what happens when you choose to tether yourself to someone else.

Love introduces friction into freedom. Not dramatic, cinematic friction—something quieter and more destabilising. Compromise. Presence. The need to be somewhere, not just anywhere.

The book doesn’t resolve that tension neatly. It sits in it.

Which is exactly why it works.

The myth of the pure life

There’s a subtle but important critique running underneath the memoir, and it’s aimed directly at the culture that elevated this kind of life in the first place.

The idea that there exists a “purer” way of living—closer to nature, further from society, stripped of unnecessary complexity—is deeply seductive. It also collapses under scrutiny.

Madia herself resists certain “upgrades” to her life, like adding running water to her trailer, not out of necessity but out of principle. The simplicity is intentional. Almost ideological.

And yet, the moment another person enters the equation, that purity becomes harder to maintain.

Because purity, as it turns out, is a solitary concept.

Life, on the other hand, isn’t.

The book doesn’t mock the desire for simplicity. It exposes its limits. It shows that even the most carefully constructed alternative life is still entangled with the same questions everyone else is dealing with: how to build something lasting without losing yourself in the process.

Nomadism, but grown up

If a lot of contemporary “nomad” narratives are about escape, Homesick Nomad is about integration.

Not in a corporate, “work-life balance” kind of way. Something more uncomfortable.

It suggests that the binary we’ve been sold—freedom versus stability, movement versus roots, independence versus commitment—is largely artificial.

Or at the very least, unsustainable over time.

You can live in the wild and still crave softness.
You can build a life around movement and still want to arrive somewhere.
You can reject expectations and still find yourself facing the same fundamental choices about partnership, purpose, and family.

Madia doesn’t position herself as a guide. There’s no framework, no method, no “five lessons from the desert.” The honesty of the book comes from its refusal to package itself as anything other than a lived contradiction.

And in a space that is saturated with performative authenticity, that restraint is almost radical.

Where it risks losing the plot

If there’s a limitation, it’s precisely in that same honesty.

The book is deeply personal, which is its strength, but it occasionally assumes that the reader will find universal meaning in experiences that are, in reality, quite specific. The desert is not a neutral setting. The ability to step in and out of that life is not universally accessible.

There’s also an underlying privilege—subtle, not flaunted—that allows this kind of existential exploration to happen in the first place. The book doesn’t ignore it entirely, but it doesn’t interrogate it as much as it could.

Still, pushing too hard in that direction would have turned it into a different book. A more analytical one, perhaps, but also a less honest one.

And Homesick Nomad is, above all, committed to its own perspective.

The real shift: from escape to choice

What the book ultimately captures is a transition that a lot of people experience but rarely articulate well.

The move from leaving something behind… to choosing something deliberately.

Escape is easy to narrate. It has a clear antagonist: the office, the city, the expectations, the noise.

Choice is messier. It doesn’t come with a villain. It comes with responsibility.

Madia’s story is less about abandoning one life for another, and more about learning to hold two truths at the same time: that freedom matters, and that connection matters just as much.

Not as a compromise, but as a condition.

So, is it worth your time?

If you’re expecting a manifesto for van life, this isn’t it.

If you’re expecting a clean arc—from rebellion to resolution—you won’t get that either.

What you get instead is something more useful: a portrait of what happens after the aesthetic fades and the real questions begin.

Homesick Nomad doesn’t try to sell you a life. It shows you the cost of one.

And more importantly, the cost of refusing to evolve it.

Final thought (slightly annoying, but accurate)

We like to think that the goal is to become free.

This book suggests the harder task is learning what to do with that freedom once you have it—and who you’re willing to share it with.

Which, inconveniently, brings you right back to the question most people were trying to avoid in the first place.

Home.

The Nomad Myth, Finally Taken Seriously (and Slightly Dismantled)
A Nomag-style long read on The New Nomads by Felix Marquardt

There are two types of books about migration.

The first kind reassures you. It confirms what you already think: that migration is either a problem to be managed or a virtue to be celebrated, depending on which side of the algorithm you woke up on that morning.

The second kind is rarer. It makes you slightly uncomfortable. It doesn’t quite let you sit neatly in your ideological chair. It forces you to admit that maybe—just maybe—you’ve been looking at the whole thing through the wrong lens.

The New Nomads belongs firmly to the second category.

And that, already, is a good sign.

Migration, but not as a headline

What Marquardt does—quietly, without too much performative cleverness—is strip migration of its media costume.

No more caravans. No more “crises.” No more LinkedIn posts about “global citizens” sipping flat whites in Lisbon pretending that mobility is a lifestyle choice available to everyone with a MacBook and a mild existential crisis.

Instead, he reframes migration as something both more banal and more radical: the default human condition.

Not the exception. The rule.

It’s an argument that sounds almost obvious once you read it, which is exactly why it works. Humans have always moved. Entire civilisations are built on the assumption that movement is normal, stasis is temporary, and “home” is a fluid concept rather than a fixed GPS coordinate.

And yet, modern discourse treats migration like a bug in the system.

Marquardt flips that. Migration is the system.

The uncomfortable middle ground

The book’s most interesting move is not its anthropology. It’s its refusal to flatter anyone.

He doesn’t romanticise migrants. He doesn’t demonise those who fear migration either. He goes somewhere more dangerous: the grey area where both sides have reasons, blind spots, and—crucially—contradictions.

There’s a passage (and you saw it in the intro) where he suggests that xenophobia is often less about hatred and more about fear of the unfamiliar. That’s not a fashionable argument. It doesn’t trend well. It doesn’t get applause at conferences.

But it lands.

Because it forces a shift: from moral superiority to psychological reality.

And once you start looking at migration through that lens, a lot of the usual narratives collapse. The loudest voices on both sides suddenly feel… a bit simplistic.

The Abdi effect

Then there’s Abdi.

If the book has a spine, it’s him.

A Malian migrant ending up on a ranch in Montana sounds like the beginning of a Netflix pitch. Instead, it becomes something more subtle: a study in proximity.

Put two people together long enough—different backgrounds, different politics, different everything—and something strange happens. Not harmony. Not conflict. Something in between.

Friction, yes. But also adaptation.

Abdi doesn’t arrive as a symbol. He becomes a person. And that’s precisely where the book scores points: it refuses to turn individuals into metaphors.

In a media ecosystem addicted to turning migrants into either heroes or threats, this is almost radical restraint.

Nomads vs “nomads”

Now, here’s where it gets interesting for anyone reading this on Nomag.

Marquardt quietly dismantles the modern idea of the “nomad”—the hyper-mobile, Wi-Fi-enabled, passport-stamped archetype that we (yes, we included) have probably helped romanticise.

He argues that what we call nomadism today is often just movement without grounding.

The original nomad, in his telling, wasn’t rootless. Quite the opposite. Deeply connected to place, cycles, land, community. Moving, yes—but within a system of meaning.

The modern version? Often just… moving.

It’s a slightly uncomfortable mirror for the whole digital nomad narrative. Not a rejection, but a recalibration.

Mobility without belonging, he suggests, is incomplete.

And if you’ve ever spent three months in a place without learning anything beyond the Wi-Fi password and the best brunch spot, you know exactly what he means.

The real provocation

What the book really challenges is not policy, but perception.

It asks a deceptively simple question: what if migration isn’t something to fix, control, or celebrate—but something to understand?

And more importantly: what if we are all, in some way, part of it?

Not just the obvious migrants. Everyone.

The retirees moving for tax regimes.
The founders relocating for opportunity.
The professionals bouncing between cities.
The “temporary” expats who somehow never quite go back.

Different labels. Same instinct.

Movement.

Where it slightly overreaches

To be fair, the book occasionally leans into its own philosophy a bit too confidently.

The idea that understanding migration more deeply will somehow soften political polarisation feels… optimistic. Reality tends to be messier. Economic pressures, housing markets, and local tensions don’t dissolve just because we’ve had a more nuanced conversation.

And there’s a risk—subtle but present—of underestimating how structural factors shape migration outcomes. Not all movement is equally empowering. Not all “nomads” are playing the same game.

Still, these are not fatal flaws. If anything, they highlight the ambition of the project.

So, should you read it?

If you’re looking for a book that confirms your worldview, probably not.

If you’re looking for something that complicates it—in a way that feels intelligent rather than performative—then yes.

The New Nomads doesn’t give you easy answers. It gives you better questions.

And in a space like migration—where everyone seems to have very strong opinions and very selective data—that’s arguably more valuable.

Final thought (slightly inconvenient)

We like to think of nomadism as freedom.

Marquardt suggests it might also be responsibility.

Responsibility to understand where you come from.
Responsibility to engage with where you go.
Responsibility not to confuse movement with meaning.

It’s not a moral lecture. It’s a quiet recalibration.

And frankly, the space could use more of those.

If Nomag has spent years telling you where to go, this book is a useful reminder to occasionally ask why you’re moving at all.

Not a bad trade.

There’s a strange pressure online to become something recognisable. A magazine. A blog. A platform. A brand with a tone of voice handbook and a content calendar that behaves better than its founders. We tried, briefly, to understand where we fit.

It didn’t work.

NOMAG stands for Not a (Digital Nomad) Magazine. Not a magazine, first of all. But also—not a digital nomad magazine. Still we love magazines and who knows… maybe tomorrow… Which might sound like splitting hairs, until you realise how quickly that label turns into a genre, and how quickly a genre turns into a formula. Top 10 cities. Best visas. Cheapest coffee with the fastest Wi-Fi. A world flattened into bullet points and affiliate links.

We’re not that.

But - just to be clear - we’re also not here pretending to be above it.

We’re genuinely glad someone out there is doing the guides. The “how to become a digital nomad in 30 days.” The breakdowns of where to go, what visa to apply for, which eSIM works best, which co-working space has the fastest Wi-Fi and the least pretentious chairs. We use that stuff too. Of course we do. Why on earth would we reinvent the wheel when someone else is happily spinning it for us?

What we don’t do is build our identity around it.

We’re also not a blog - whatever that word is supposed to mean anymore. We don’t publish with discipline, we don’t chase keywords like they owe us money, and we don’t pretend to have answers for people who are clearly asking the wrong questions.

Yes, we are a newsletter. Technically ‘The Nomag Pulse’ is. But punctuality has never been part of the deal. We show up when something feels worth saying, not when a schedule tells us to exist. Sometimes we disappear. Sometimes we overload your inbox. Sometimes we contradict ourselves. All of it is intentional in the only way that matters: it’s honest.

We’re here and there. Mostly there. Occasionally here. Very rarely where you expect us to be.

And somehow, this chaos has a following.

Across Substack (#10 travel newsletter worldwide), LinkedIn and Instagram, we’re close to 100,000 people. Not followers in the abstract sense, but people who showed up, read something, and didn’t immediately leave. Two years ago, we were still figuring out how to connect to Wi-Fi without turning it into a small existential crisis. Now, Google describes NOMAG (The Nomag Pulse) as a “Leading platform. A lifestyle and culture project. Community-centric.”

We didn’t write that. We’re not even sure we fully agree with it. But we’ll take the accidental compliment.

Also - since we’re being honest - if there are commercial partners out there who feel like working with us: we’re here. We’re big enough to matter, small enough to still care, and informal enough to not turn everything into a corporate funeral. We don’t hide behind jargon, we don’t pretend to be something we’re not, and we’re fairly good at telling stories that people actually read.

And yes, for readers, this thing is free. It has always been free. It will probably continue to be free in the way that matters.

There is a paid subscription, though. Or at least, there will be - once it starts making proper sense. Not as a gatekeeping exercise, but as an extension. Maybe access to the places we pass through. Maybe the ability to stay in the homes we scatter around the world. Maybe discounts on co-working spaces, or things that others already offer but we can make slightly more human, slightly less transactional.

We’re still figuring that part out. In public. Like everything else.

Because NOMAG was never built to be efficient. It was built to move.

We don’t have a newsroom in the traditional sense. It exists somewhere between different countries, time zones, and unfinished drafts. We were born remote, not as a statement but as a default. We never really asked where we were based. It felt irrelevant.

What matters is that this thing doesn’t stand still.

And movement, by definition, resists structure. It breaks patterns. It ignores best practices. It shows up late and leaves early. It doesn’t scale nicely, it doesn’t optimise cleanly, and it definitely doesn’t ask for permission.

So no - we’re not a digital nomad magazine. Maybe one day… now we are a funny mess, but one that moves people and ideas.

We’re something less useful.
And, for the same reason, something far more difficult to replace.

Catch us if you can.

There’s something almost tragic—if you look at it from the right angle—in the way digital nomads choose where to go next.

Every summer, like clockwork, a new list pops up. “Top trending destinations.” “Hidden gems.” “Underrated cities you must visit before everyone else does.” The wording changes slightly, the logic doesn’t. A place gets picked up by a couple of outlets, amplified by a few creators, repackaged by a handful of platforms, and suddenly it becomes a destination. Not a city, not a community, not a functioning ecosystem—just a destination.

And that’s where the misunderstanding begins.

Because if you’re actually working remotely, if you’re not just on a long holiday disguised as a lifestyle, you’re not choosing a destination. You’re choosing a temporary life infrastructure. And those two things have very little overlap.

Take Alicante, or any of the usual suspects that get thrown into these rankings. The arguments are always the same: affordable, sunny, well connected, good food, decent beaches, maybe even a couple of coworking spaces thrown in to make it sound serious. All true, by the way. But also almost entirely irrelevant after your first two weeks.

The real question is not whether a place looks good on paper. It’s whether it still works when the novelty wears off and your life reduces, quite brutally, to a series of repetitive needs: stable internet, predictable routines, access to services, people you actually want to see again.

And that’s where most “trending” places quietly fall apart.

The moment a place becomes content

There is a very specific tipping point where a location stops being interesting and starts being marketed. You can usually spot it early: the same viewpoints, the same cafés, the same slightly overproduced narratives about “quality of life” that somehow always include brunch.

At that point, what you’re seeing is no longer discovery—it’s distribution.

And distribution has consequences. Prices adjust faster than infrastructure. Local businesses start optimising for short-term consumption. Housing becomes a rotating door. The very things that made the place attractive in the first place—pace, authenticity, accessibility—get diluted, not out of malice, but because demand has shifted the incentives.

This doesn’t make the place bad. It just makes it less suitable for what you actually need.

Because again, and it’s worth repeating: you’re not there to visit. You’re there to function.

The uncomfortable checklist nobody posts on Instagram

Let’s strip it down to something more practical, because this is where most people either over-romanticise or underthink.

If you’re staying longer than a couple of weeks, your decision should look less like “where do I want to go?” and more like “where can I realistically live without friction?”

A few unsexy—but decisive—filters:

• Healthcare access: Not whether there’s a hospital, but whether you understand how to use it, how fast you can get seen, and whether language becomes a barrier the moment something goes wrong. You don’t need it until you really need it.

• Connectivity (the boring kind): Everyone talks about Wi-Fi speed. Almost nobody checks network stability, mobile data fallback, or how often outages happen. One dropped call during a pitch is annoying. A pattern is a problem.

• Transport logic: Not just airport connections, but how the city actually moves. Can you function without a car? Are trains reliable? Are you going to spend half your week negotiating logistics?

• Local economy vs expat economy: If everything you use is designed for people like you, you’re in a bubble. And bubbles are comfortable, but they’re also fragile and expensive.

• Administrative friction: SIM cards, contracts, rentals, basic paperwork. In some places, this is a one-hour task. In others, it’s a three-week saga that slowly erodes your will to live.

None of this is glamorous. But all of it compounds.

Coworking is not a community

This one deserves a bit of honesty, because it’s often oversold.

A coworking space is a service. Sometimes a good one. Occasionally even a great one. But it is not, by default, a community.

What you often get in highly “nomadised” destinations is a constant flow of people in similar phases of life, having very similar conversations, with very limited continuity. It’s pleasant, it’s easy, it’s also shallow by design.

If your goal is simply to not work alone, that’s enough.

If your goal is to build something—relationships, ideas, collaborations—you need a layer beyond that. You need locals, long-term residents, people with stakes in the place. And those are rarely concentrated in the same spots that get featured in “Top 10 coworking cafés with sea view.”

A slightly better way to choose

So what does a more intelligent selection process look like?

Not perfect, but at least more intentional.

Start with constraints, not desires. Define what breaks your workflow, not what enhances your Instagram. Work backwards from there.

Then, instead of looking at where everyone is going, look at where things are quietly working. Secondary cities, smaller regions, places that have infrastructure without the narrative. The kind of places that don’t need to sell themselves because they’re not trying to scale attention.

Italy, for example, is full of these contradictions. Everyone talks about the same five cities, while dozens of smaller ones—with decent connectivity, lower costs, and actual communities—remain completely ignored because they don’t fit the “nomad aesthetic.” Which, ironically, makes them far more suitable.

The same applies across Spain, France, even parts of Eastern Europe. The opportunity is rarely in the obvious choice. It’s in the slightly inconvenient one.

Or, just be honest about what you want

Because there is also a simpler possibility, and it’s worth stating without judgment.

Maybe you do want the beach, the bars, the energy, the easy conversations, the feeling of being somewhere “alive” in the most immediate sense. That’s fine. That’s not a failure of strategy. That’s a different objective.

But then call it what it is.

That’s a lifestyle break. A semi-extended holiday. A phase.

Not a base.

And the problem only starts when the two get confused—when you expect a place optimised for short-term enjoyment to support long-term stability.

It won’t. Or at least, not without friction.

The takeaway nobody will turn into a reel

If a place is trending, it means the decision has already been made—for you, by someone else, for reasons that are rarely aligned with your actual needs.

And if you follow that signal blindly, you’re not really choosing anymore. You’re just participating.

Which is slightly ironic, for a lifestyle that’s supposed to be about freedom.

So next time you’re picking your next move, resist the list. Ignore the hype. Spend a bit more time thinking like someone who has to wake up there on a Tuesday, not like someone arriving on a Friday.

And if after all that you still pick the trending destination, at least you’ll know why.

Which, already, puts you ahead of most people.

If we don’t learn how to name things properly, we’ll keep building the wrong systems for the wrong people - and calling it innovation

Highlights (read this before you pack your bags):

• Not everyone working abroad is a digital nomad - and pretending otherwise creates real-world problems.

• A digital nomad moves by design. An expat stays by consequence (or choice).

• Remote work is not a lifestyle. It’s infrastructure.

• “Smart working” is not digital nomadism - especially in the Italian context.

• Mislabeling these categories leads to broken housing, wrong policies, and risky personal decisions.

• Insurance is not a detail - it’s the first reality check of what kind of life you’re actually living.

• Define the role correctly, and suddenly everything - from housing to healthcare -starts making sense.

There’s a quiet distortion happening in the way we talk about living and working across borders. It shows up in headlines, in policy papers, in LinkedIn posts that feel vaguely inspirational but strangely imprecise. Everyone seems to be a digital nomad now. Everyone is “remote.” Everyone is “relocating.” And in Italy (home to many of us at ) , everyone is apparently doing smart working, which sounds sophisticated enough to pass as a strategy.

It isn’t.

What we are witnessing is not a single trend, but a cluster of very different behaviors that have been flattened into one convenient narrative. The result is not just linguistic confusion. It’s something far more consequential: cities planning for the wrong residents, services built for the wrong needs, and individuals navigating systems that don’t actually fit the lives they are living.

So let’s do something slightly unfashionable and bring back distinctions. Not because definitions are academic exercises, but because they shape reality in very practical ways.

Movement vs settlement: the line nobody wants to draw

A digital nomad is not simply someone working from a laptop abroad. That’s the Instagram version, and it’s about as accurate as calling anyone with running shoes a marathoner. What defines a nomad is not the laptop, nor the destination, but the structure of their life. Movement is not an accident; it is the model. They design their existence around the ability to leave, to shift, to remain temporarily uncommitted to any single place.

That temporal dimension is everything. It influences how they choose housing, how they relate to local communities, how they organize work, even how they think about identity. A nomad doesn’t just live somewhere; they pass through it with intent - even when they linger.

Now compare that with someone who arrives in a country and, after an initial period of exploration, begins to stabilize. They sign a longer lease, learn how the local healthcare system works, open a bank account, perhaps start dealing with tax residency questions. At some point, whether they admit it or not, they stop optimizing for movement and start optimizing for continuity.

That person is no longer a digital nomad. They have crossed into expat territory, even if their income still comes from abroad and their original intention was “just to try it out.” The transition is often subtle, almost reluctant, but it changes everything. The expectations they place on a place - and the expectations that place should reasonably have of them - are no longer the same.

And then there is relocation, which strips away the ambiguity entirely. Relocation is not exploratory. It is a decision. It implies a before and an after, a shift from one system to another, usually accompanied by a degree of commitment that goes well beyond lifestyle experimentation. It might still be driven by cost, lifestyle, or opportunity, but the mindset is no longer “let’s see” - it’s “this is happening.”

Remote work, in all of this, is the least interesting category, despite being the one most frequently used. It is not an identity, nor a lifestyle. It is simply the condition that makes all the others possible. It tells you how someone performs their job, but it tells you almost nothing about how they live their life.

And then, inevitably, we arrive in Italy, where smart working has become a kind of semantic wildcard. In theory, it refers to flexible, results-oriented work. In practice, it often means working from somewhere other than the office, usually within the same country, occasionally from a second home, and very rarely with the kind of structural mobility that defines true cross-border living. It has its place - but that place is not this conversation.

(And yes, we occasionally zoom in on the Italian angle - because nearly 30% of our readers are based in Italy, and what happens there is often a preview of how quickly narratives can drift away from reality.)

Why getting this wrong becomes expensive very quickly

It would be easy to dismiss all of this as semantics, the kind of distinction that matters only to people who enjoy categorizing things.

Except it doesn’t stay in the realm of language. It leaks into decisions.

Take housing. A city that believes it is attracting digital nomads will tend to favor short-term accommodation, flexible leases, and high turnover platforms. It builds for transience. But if the people arriving are not actually transient - if they are, in effect, becoming long-term residents - then the system begins to distort. Prices rise, availability shrinks, and what was framed as a strategy to attract talent slowly turns into something else entirely.

Nomads need flexibility. Expats need stability. Confuse the two, and you break the market.

We’ve seen this pattern already. And it repeats with almost boring consistency.

The insurance question nobody asks - until it’s too late

This is where things stop being theoretical.

Because sooner or later, something goes wrong. A health issue, an accident, a gap in coverage that nobody thought to check because everything seemed to be working just fine.

And suddenly the question becomes very simple: what exactly are you, and who is responsible for you?

A digital nomad, by definition, exists across borders. They move through systems that do not fully recognize them, often without access to public healthcare, and without the safety net that comes from long-term integration. Assuming that a domestic insurance policy will somehow stretch across multiple countries is one of those comforting ideas that tends to collapse under pressure.

An expat, on the other hand, gradually plugs into the host country. They may gain access to national healthcare, they may be required to contribute locally, and their coverage begins to align with where they actually live. But that process is not immediate, and it is rarely seamless.

Then there is the remote employee abroad, who often assumes that their company has everything covered. Sometimes that’s true. Sometimes it’s partially true. And sometimes - quietly - it’s not true at all.

This is where reality hits hardest: coverage is not based on how you see yourself, but on how systems classify you.

And this is exactly why global, portable insurance solutions have moved from niche to necessary. Providers like Nomad Insurance by SafetyWing - supporting this newsletter, thanks guys! - exist because traditional systems are still built for a world where people live and work in the same country.

That world is gone.

If your life is mobile, your protection needs to be mobile too. Not as an afterthought, but as a foundation.

Because in the hierarchy of bad surprises, “I thought I was covered” ranks dangerously high.

Learn more about our plan

Why this matters to us (and why we don’t pretend otherwise)

At Nomag, this isn’t a theoretical debate.

We care about these distinctions because we live inside them. We’ve seen how easily the narrative drifts away from reality, how quickly a flexible lifestyle becomes something more anchored, how often people underestimate the practical implications of their choices.

We’ve chosen to tell this story from the inside. Not the polished version, but the one where plans change, assumptions get tested, and the idea of “working from anywhere” meets the reality of actually doing it.

At the same time, we’ve made another choice.

We don’t try to be everything.

There are areas - tax, legal frameworks, regulatory complexity - where others go deeper, and where it makes sense to let those voices lead. Not because we lack opinions, but because clarity sometimes comes from knowing where your perspective ends.

What we do instead is connect the dots. We observe, we test, we partner with those building real solutions, and we try to make sense of a landscape that is evolving faster than the language used to describe it.

Because this isn’t just about telling better stories.

It’s about helping people make better decisions.

The part nobody puts in the headline

Yes, cost of living matters. It’s often the trigger.

But it’s rarely the full story.

What follows is a process of adaptation, of redefinition, of moving - sometimes consciously, sometimes by inertia - from one category to another. From nomad to expat. From temporary to permanent.

And that journey cannot be understood if we insist on calling everything by the same name.

Final thought (before we all book another one-way ticket)

Call yourself whatever you like.

But understand what you’re actually doing.

Because the systems you rely on - housing, healthcare, insurance, work, community - are not built on vibes. They are built on assumptions.

And if those assumptions are wrong, the consequences don’t arrive loudly.

They arrive all at once.

There’s a familiar narrative making the rounds again. Americans - squeezed by rising rents, healthcare costs, and the general absurdity of everyday life - are packing up and moving abroad. The pitch is simple, almost irresistible: same income, lower costs, better life.

It’s clean. It’s clickable. It’s also incomplete.

Because what we’re really talking about here isn’t just moving abroad. It’s three very different things that keep getting lumped together: relocation, expat life, and digital nomadism. And confusing them isn’t just a semantic issue—it distorts how we understand what’s actually happening on the ground.

Let’s unpack it properly.

The cost-of-living escape plan (a.k.a. relocation lite)

The article frames the trend through a very specific lens: Americans leveraging remote work to arbitrage cost of living. Earn in dollars, spend in lari, pesos, or euros. Fair enough.

But this isn’t new. It’s just newly visible.

What is new is the scale - and the fact that remote work has removed friction. You no longer need a job transfer, a local contract, or a long-term commitment. You just need Wi-Fi and a passport.

But here’s the first problem: this is not digital nomadism by default.

If someone moves to Tbilisi, Lisbon, or Mexico City and stays there indefinitely, setting up routines, building relationships, maybe even signing a lease or dealing with local bureaucracy… that’s not “nomadic.”

That’s relocation. Or, more precisely, expat life with a remote income.

Nomad vs Expat: same plane, different destination

We keep pretending these categories blur into each other. They don’t. Not really.

• A digital nomad is structurally temporary. Movement is part of the model. You optimize for flexibility, not stability.

• An expat is structurally settled. Even if the move was opportunistic or driven by cost, the intent shifts toward staying.

And that shift changes everything.

A nomad cares about visa runs, short-term rentals, and community churn.
An expat starts caring about healthcare systems, taxes, schools, and long-term residency.

Same starting point, completely different trajectory.

So when someone says, “I moved abroad because it’s cheaper,” the real question is:
For how long - and with what intention?

The lifestyle arbitrage myth (and where it cracks)

The article highlights a key idea: people accessing lifestyles abroad that would be out of reach in the U.S.

True. But only up to a point.

Because the arbitrage works best in a very specific window:

• You earn in a strong currency

• You spend in a weaker one

• You don’t fully integrate into the local system

The moment you start integrating - paying local taxes properly, using private healthcare, dealing with inflation in popular expat hubs - the gap narrows. Sometimes dramatically.

Lisbon is the classic example. Once “cheap Europe,” now pricing out locals and surprising newcomers who arrived five years too late.

Mexico City? Same trajectory.
Tbilisi? Still early, but not immune.

The pattern repeats:
Nomads discover → Expats settle → Prices rise → Narrative lags behind reality

So what are we actually seeing?

Not a mass conversion into digital nomads.

What we’re seeing is a spectrum:

1. Short-term nomads testing locations (3–6 months, maybe a year)

2. Soft relocators who arrive “temporarily” and quietly stay

3. Full expats who commit- legally, financially, emotionally

The article mostly captures group #2 but labels it as something broader and trendier.

And that’s where the confusion creeps in.

Why this distinction actually matters

Because policies, cities, and communities respond differently depending on who’s arriving.

Nomads bring liquidity and short-term demand.
Expats reshape housing markets, services, and demographics.

If you’re a small Italian town trying to attract remote workers, this isn’t a detail—it’s strategy.

Do you want:

• People passing through every few months?

• Or people who might actually stay, invest, and integrate?

Same remote worker. Completely different impact.

The uncomfortable truth

Yes, cost of living is a driver. A big one.

But reducing the story to “Americans moving abroad because it’s cheaper” misses the deeper shift:

This is not just economic.
It’s structural. Cultural. Behavioral.

People are renegotiating where—and how—they live.

Some will keep moving.
Some will stop.
Most don’t know yet.

And maybe that’s the most honest version of the story.

Final thought (the Nomag way)

Call it what you want - nomad, expat, remote worker, escape artist.

Just don’t pretend they’re the same thing.

Because the moment you stop moving, you’re not just chasing a cheaper life anymore.

You’re building one.

There’s a moment every digital nomad knows too well. You’re at an airport, boarding delayed, laptop at 23%, AirPods barely holding on, and you’ve got a call in ten minutes that absolutely cannot happen with gate announcements screaming behind you. You start scanning the space like a survivalist. A quiet corner? Taken. A lounge? Full. A café? Loud, overpriced, and somehow full of people doing exactly what you’re trying to do.

This is precisely the moment that WeWork has decided to monetise.

Their new product, WeWork Go, is essentially a network of compact, private office pods designed for places where concentration goes to die: airports, convention centres, large-scale events. The concept is simple enough to feel obvious in hindsight. You step in, close the door, and for a limited amount of time you reclaim something that has become surprisingly rare in modern work: control.

Inside, the promise is a curated version of the office experience shrunk down to its essentials. There’s sound insulation designed to keep the outside chaos out, lighting that won’t ruin your appearance on camera, a proper seat that doesn’t punish your spine, and reliable connectivity. In other words, it’s not trying to be inspiring. It’s trying to be functional in environments that are structurally hostile to focus.

The launch itself tells you a lot about the intended audience. The first public appearance is at the Semafor World Economy conference in Washington, D.C., a setting where everyone pretends to be present while simultaneously managing three parallel conversations across devices. From there, the plan is to expand into airports and other high-traffic nodes, the places where time is fragmented and work inevitably leaks into transit.

Now, to be clear, the idea of a private pod in a public space isn’t new. If you’ve travelled enough, you’ve probably seen (and ignored) similar solutions. Companies connected to IWG have already invested in pod-based systems like Jabbrrbox, placing them in major airports in the United States. The difference is not so much the object itself, but the positioning. WeWork isn’t just selling a booth. It is inserting itself into the micro-moments of your day, those small windows of time that used to be dead, unproductive, or simply yours.

And this is where things get more interesting.

For years, WeWork’s story was about space at scale: big, beautifully designed offices, community, flexibility, and a certain lifestyle aesthetic. After its very public reset and exit from bankruptcy in 2024, the company has been forced to rethink not just its finances, but its philosophy. WeWork Go is a signal that the new strategy is less about square footage and more about frequency of use. Instead of convincing you to rent a desk for a month, they’re inviting you to rent fifteen minutes of silence.

From a business perspective, it’s a sharp move. Smaller units, higher turnover, strategic placement in locations where demand is almost guaranteed. From a user perspective, especially if you live a semi-nomadic or hybrid life, it’s difficult not to see the appeal. You don’t need a full office when you’re travelling. You need a place to take one important call, to send one focused email, to regain composure between two chaotic environments.

But there’s also a subtle shift happening here, and it’s worth paying attention to it.

The traditional boundaries between work and movement have been eroding for years. Laptops got lighter, connectivity got faster, and suddenly work could follow you anywhere. What these pods represent is the next step: not just the possibility of working anywhere, but the expectation that you will. Waiting time is no longer neutral. It becomes an opportunity. A delay becomes a slot. A transit space becomes a workplace.

For digital nomads, this cuts both ways. On one hand, it removes friction. It makes life easier in those awkward in-between moments that used to require improvisation. On the other hand, it quietly eliminates one of the last excuses to disconnect. If there is always a quiet, optimised space available, then the decision not to work becomes more intentional, almost harder to justify.

And yet, despite all the philosophical implications, the reality is much simpler.

You will probably use it.

Because when you’re tired, slightly stressed, and stuck between two destinations, the idea of stepping into a clean, quiet, controlled environment for half an hour is incredibly attractive. It doesn’t feel like a corporate strategy. It feels like relief.

The real question is not whether WeWork Go will find its market. It almost certainly will. The real question is what kind of work culture it reinforces. One where flexibility empowers you, or one where flexibility slowly absorbs every corner of your time.

As always, the technology itself is neutral. The way we use it isn’t.

According to Freaking Nomads (credit where it’s due for actually tracking these things properly), the Georgian parliament has officially approved the C5 digital nomad visa in its final reading.

Full source here:
https://freakingnomads.com/news/georgia-introduces-digital-nomad-visa-in-final-parliamentary-approval/

Let’s cut through the noise.

What the C5 visa actually is (no fluff version)

This isn’t revolutionary.
But it is… functional.

The C5 visa gives you:

• Multiple entry

• Validity up to 5 years

• Stays of up to 12 consecutive months

• Option to bring spouse and kids

Translation: no more awkward visa runs every few months pretending you’re a tourist while answering Slack messages.

The real point: Georgia wants your money, not your job

Here’s the deal.

You can live there.
You can work remotely.
But you cannot enter the local labor market.

Classic model:
👉 import income
👉 avoid local competition

We’ve seen it before in places like Portugal and Spain — but the difference is that Georgia isn’t pretending this is anything else.

It’s clean. Almost brutally honest.

Cost: suspiciously cheap

We’re talking $20 to $500.

Which, in the global visa circus, is basically pocket money.

There’s also mention of fast-track applications, which sounds great… until you remember how “fast” works in practice anywhere in the world.

Still, on paper, it’s one of the most accessible setups out there.

The small print (that’s actually not small)

Authorities can reject your application
👉 without explanation
👉 without appeal

Yes, really.

That’s the kind of clause you ignore… right until it hits you.

It won’t matter to most people.
But for some, it’s the only line that matters.

So… is it actually worth it?

Depends who you are.

If you’re:

• a stable remote worker

• earning from abroad

• not trying to hack the system

👉 This works.

If you’re:

• “figuring things out” financially

• planning to improvise your income

• or hoping to blend into the local economy

👉 This might not end well.

Context: Georgia wasn’t exactly struggling already

Georgia has been quietly nomad-friendly for years:

• Up to 365 days visa-free for many nationalities

• Low cost of living

• A growing scene in Tbilisi

Back in 2020, they launched Remotely from Georgia with a $2,000/month threshold.

This new C5 visa?
It’s just a more formal, scalable version of something that already worked.

What this really signals

This isn’t about Georgia.

This is about the broader shift:

👉 Countries are now competing for remote income streams
👉 Not tourists, not residents — mobile taxpayers without tax complications
👉 And they’re getting more selective about it

What you should actually do now

• Ignore the hype threads

• Watch official channels (not “nomad gurus”)

• Get your basics ready:

  • proof of remote work

  • valid passport

  • health insurance

  • financial documentation

If you’re thinking long-term or moving with family → this is worth tracking closely.

Nomag take (aka: no romance, just reality)

Georgia isn’t selling a dream.

It’s offering something simpler:
👉 a functional base for people who already work remotely

And weirdly enough, that already puts it ahead of half of Europe.

No hype.
No fantasy.

Just strategy.

Which, in 2026, is almost refreshing.

If you thought post-pandemic travel had finally settled into something resembling… normal, the European Union just politely disagreed.

On April 10, the Entry/Exit System (EES) went fully mandatory across the Schengen Area. Translation: no more passport stamps, no more human discretion, no more “I think I entered in May?” conversations at border control. From now on, your face, your fingerprints, and your travel history are all logged—precisely, permanently (well, three years), and without much room for improvisation.

It’s clean. It’s efficient. It’s also… chaos.

Goodbye Stamps, Hello Database

Let’s start with the pitch. The European Commission is selling this as a long-overdue upgrade.

Every non-EU traveler entering the Schengen Zone now gets:

• A facial scan

• Four fingerprints

• Their travel document digitally recorded

Come back again? Just your face will do.

No more ink stamps fading into oblivion. No more border officers flipping pages like they’re reading tea leaves. The system tracks your movements automatically and enforces the infamous 90/180-day rule with the enthusiasm of a tax auditor.

From a policy standpoint, it makes sense. Over 45 million crossings already logged during the rollout. Thousands of overstays detected. A few hundred security flags caught early.

From a traveler’s standpoint? Well…

The Queue Is the Message

The theory is elegant. The reality looks more like a Ryanair boarding line in August.

Early signals weren’t subtle.

• At Lisbon Airport, authorities pulled the plug on the system in December after queues stretched beyond five hours.

• Geneva Airport saw three-hour waits during peak periods.

• Reports (including from BBC Travel) suggest processing times have jumped by up to 70%.

And that was before the system became fully mandatory.

Now imagine July.

Industry warnings are already floating around: five to six hours at major hubs during peak season isn’t some dystopian exaggeration—it’s a planning assumption.

“But It’s Digital!” Yes. That’s the Problem.

Biometric systems are great at scale—eventually. But the first touchpoint is always the slowest.

Every first-time traveler now needs to:

1. Stop

2. Scan

3. Register

4. Wait

Multiply that by tens of millions of people, uneven infrastructure across 29 countries, and the charming unpredictability of European summer travel—and suddenly your seamless Schengen dream starts looking like a Black Friday sale.

Even airlines are now in the loop. They’re legally required to verify your visa status before boarding. Which sounds reassuring until you realise it adds another potential bottleneck before you even reach the airport bar.

Digital Nomads: Precision Cuts Both Ways

If you’re floating around Europe on vibes and vague date math, this is where things get serious.

The 90/180-day rule is no longer:

• flexible

• arguable

• negotiable

It’s automated. Completely.

The system knows:

• when you entered

• when you left

• how long you stayed

There’s no “but the stamp was unclear.” There’s no “the officer didn’t stamp me.” There’s just data.

For disciplined travelers, this is actually helpful. For everyone else… it’s a quiet reckoning.

If you’re on a proper digital nomad visa (Spain, Portugal, Greece, etc.), you’re fine—different category, different rules. But if you’re doing the classic Schengen shuffle, hopping between countries and hoping the math works out, the margin for error is now exactly zero.

The Bigger Trade-Off Nobody Mentions

There’s another layer here that’s getting less airtime.

Europe now holds biometric data on tens of millions of travelers in a centralized system.

That’s not inherently sinister—it’s consistent with what countries like the US have done for years. But it does shift the balance. Borders are no longer just checkpoints; they’re data collection points.

Efficient? Yes.
Neutral? Not entirely.

So… Wasn’t Travel Supposed to Be Easier by Now?

That’s the irony.

We’ve got:

• biometric passports

• AI-powered border systems

• real-time data tracking

And yet, standing in line at 6am in a crowded terminal, none of that feels particularly futuristic.

It feels like waiting.

The EES will probably work—eventually. Systems stabilise. Processes smooth out. Queues shrink. That’s how these things go.

But right now? Europe has upgraded its borders faster than it’s upgraded the experience of crossing them.

So if you’re heading into Schengen this summer, here’s the only piece of advice that actually matters:

Arrive early.
Then arrive earlier than that.

Let’s start by fixing the headline everyone is tempted to write — and getting it out of the way.

Sicily is not hiring remote workers.

There’s no magical programme where you land in Palermo, open your laptop, and someone from the regional government wires you €30,000 for the effort. That narrative writes itself, but it’s also wrong.

What’s actually happening is more subtle, and in some ways more interesting. The region is offering a financial incentive — up to €30,000 — to companies that hire (or stabilise) employees who will then live and work remotely from Sicily. The employer applies, the employee relocates, and the work… stays wherever it already is.

Which, if you think about it for a second, is probably the most honest reflection of how work already functions.

According to the official scheme, the goal is to support workers staying in the region while improving work-life balance . That’s the institutional version. The real story underneath is simpler: work is global, life is not — and Sicily is trying, in its own way, to insert itself into that gap.

For once, the direction is right

Strip away the paperwork, and the logic is almost refreshingly straightforward.

You don’t need to move your company.
You don’t need to open a local office.
You don’t even need to pretend the work is “local”.

You just… live there.

For years, regional policies across Europe have tried to attract businesses, hoping jobs would follow. This one quietly flips the model and goes straight to the source: the people who can already choose where they live.

It’s not revolutionary, but it’s definitely less outdated than most alternatives.

And yet, if you’re a digital nomad, you already see the problem

Because the moment you move from the idea to the actual rules, the vibe changes a bit.

To make this work, you need a permanent employment contract, a company willing to go through the process, and — perhaps most importantly — a five-year commitment to actually stay in Sicily while working remotely.

Which is perfectly reasonable if you’re thinking in terms of stability. Slightly less so if your default setting is movement.

Let’s be honest: a large chunk of people who identify as “digital nomads” don’t have a traditional employer in the first place. They freelance, consult, build things, drop them, move again, repeat. Their entire model is based on optionality.

Trying to plug that into a five-year, employer-driven incentive is a bit like asking a surfer to sign a long-term lease on the ocean.

This isn’t about nomads. It’s about people who are done moving

And that’s the part that often gets lost in the conversation.

This policy isn’t really about mobility. It’s about the moment when mobility slows down.

It’s for people who already have (or want) a structured job, who are open to relocating, and who don’t mind the idea of staying put for a while. People who like the idea of working globally but living locally — not as a temporary phase, but as a setup.

Put differently: this is not a “come for three months and see how it goes” kind of incentive.

It’s a “if you’re thinking of building a life somewhere, we’ll meet you halfway” kind of move.

And when you frame it like that, it becomes a lot more coherent.

The awkward middle ground

Where things get slightly messy is in how these initiatives are often positioned.

Because they tend to borrow the language of digital nomadism — flexibility, freedom, global work — while structurally targeting a completely different audience.

The result is that strange middle ground where:

• it’s too rigid for the hyper-mobile crowd

• but still too experimental for traditional corporate relocation

Which doesn’t make it wrong. Just… niche.

Still, credit where it’s due

It would be easy to dismiss this as yet another half-baked incentive. It isn’t.

There’s actually a meaningful shift here, even if it’s not fully realised.

For once, a public policy is acknowledging that:

companies don’t need to move anymore,
but people might.

And more importantly, that attracting residents — not just businesses — might be the smarter long-term strategy.

That’s not how most places are thinking yet.

So, is it good?

It depends entirely on who you are.

If you’re a freelancer bouncing between Lisbon, Bali and Barcelona, this probably won’t change your plans.

If you’re employed, working remotely, and starting to feel that maybe — just maybe — constant movement isn’t the only version of freedom… then suddenly this starts to look interesting.

Not perfect. Not frictionless. But interesting.

Final thought

Sicily didn’t build a programme for digital nomads.

It built one for what comes after.

And maybe that’s the more honest play.

A quick thanks to and our friends at for surfacing the scheme and helping clarify what it actually is — and, just as importantly, what it isn’t.

This week, Idealista published one of those increasingly familiar pieces announcing that remote workers are flocking to places like Bologna, Lecce, Palermo and Bari instead of Milan or Rome.

And broadly speaking, they are right.

The shift is real.
We have been talking about it for months.
We have seen it first-hand.
And frankly, it is mildly amusing watching major platforms slowly package into trend pieces what many people working in this space have been observing for quite some time.

But beyond the predictable “yes, we noticed too, thank you” reaction, there is one thing in the article that deserves pushing back on.

Because while the headline talks about digital nomads, the reality they are describing is often something quite different.

And that distinction matters.

The people increasingly looking at Italy’s secondary cities and lifestyle destinations are not, for the most part, the stereotypical digital nomads of internet mythology.

They are not twenty-eight-year-olds drifting from laptop to laptop between Bali, Lisbon and Medellín.

They are not backpacking freelancers moving every three months with a ring light and a Notion subscription.

What Italy is attracting more and more of is something else entirely: relocators.

Professionals with stable remote income.
Entrepreneurs.
Families.
Couples in their thirties and forties.
Semi-permanent movers.
People looking not for a temporary base, but for an actual life.

Because here is the practical reality that glossy property articles often skip over: a true nomad rarely buys property.

A person experimenting with flexible location independence does not generally move country, navigate bureaucracy, wire funds, hire surveyors, and purchase real estate in a place they may leave twelve months later.

Someone buying property is making a different decision entirely.

They are not “nomading.”

They are relocating.

And that is where the conversation around Italy becomes more serious—and more interesting.

Because once you stop talking about temporary remote workers and start talking about actual relocation, the biggest issue is no longer simply which city is attractive.

It is: where exactly do people live?

Because one of the least discussed realities of the Italian relocation market is that while many cities may look attractive on paper, actually finding suitable rental stock for medium or long-term international movers is often extraordinarily difficult.

Not impossible.

But difficult.

Good, well-finished, professionally managed, move-in-ready rental housing remains limited in many of the very destinations now being promoted as “remote work hotspots.”

Supply is inconsistent.
Standards vary wildly.
Inventory is often outdated.
Landlords can be hesitant.
Processes can be opaque.
And what looks plentiful online often proves unsuitable the moment serious criteria are applied.

In other words: many people discover quickly that the theoretical lifestyle may be easy to market, but the practical housing solution is far less straightforward.

Which is precisely why, in many cases, people end up doing one of three things.

They either: buy cheaply and renovate over time;

find a specialist operator or project developer who has already done the hard work for them;

or simply give up and choose another market altogether.

And that is perhaps the bigger story here—not just that Italy is attracting remote workers, but that the country’s housing and relocation ecosystem is still catching up with the type of international demand now emerging.

Airbnb, for all the criticism often thrown at it, actually played an important transitional role in that story.

It helped surface dormant housing stock.
It encouraged renovation.
It proved there was demand beyond traditional tourism.
And in many places, it gave owners their first incentive in decades to modernise neglected property.

Of course, short-term rentals also created distortions and occasional local tensions. Anyone pretending otherwise is being unserious.

But they also exposed opportunity.

They showed that people wanted to come, stay, test, and experience these places before committing.

And that matters—because relocation decisions of this kind are not small.

Nobody serious should be choosing where to build a new life because of a “Top 7 Italian Towns for Remote Workers” article.

These are life decisions. Financial decisions. Lifestyle decisions. Family decisions.

They require time, testing, context, due diligence.

Not just a good Wi-Fi speed and a nice quote about espresso in medieval piazzas.

So yes, Idealista is correct that Italy is increasingly appealing to remote workers.

But the more accurate framing is this:

Italy is not simply becoming a digital nomad destination.

It is becoming a relocation destination for people with remote income.

And those are two very different things.

The sooner the wider media stops confusing the two, the more honest—and useful—this conversation becomes.

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There is an uncomfortable conversation starting to bubble up in Greece, and if you have spent any time following what happened in Lisbon, Barcelona or parts of Italy, it will sound very familiar.

Housing is getting expensive. Really expensive.

Rents have reportedly risen by around 30 percent in recent years, supply is tight, and more Greeks—particularly younger ones—are finding themselves squeezed out of the very neighbourhoods they grew up in. The usual causes are being blamed: years of underbuilding, speculative foreign investment, Airbnb, tourism pressure, Golden Visa buyers, and yes… digital nomads.

Cue the awkward silence from everyone typing this from a beachside Airbnb.

Now, to be clear, digital nomads are not the reason Greece has a housing problem. That would be a wildly simplistic take. Housing crises are usually the result of years of bad planning, poor supply, weak regulation and governments discovering—far too late—that people do, in fact, need places to live.

But let us not pretend remote workers are completely innocent either.

When thousands of relatively well-paid foreigners start flocking to the same sunny neighbourhoods, the same islands, the same “hidden gems” that mysteriously all appear on TikTok at the same time, prices go up. It is basic economics, with a side of oat milk flat white.

And this is where the digital nomad community has reached a bit of a crossroads.

Because remote workers can absolutely be part of the problem.

Or, if they are a little smarter about how they move, they can also be part of the solution.

The issue is not that people want to live in Greece. Frankly, who can blame them.

The issue is that everyone seems to want the exact same version of Greece.

Athens, but only the cool parts.
An island, but one with fibre internet.
Walkable streets, but near brunch.
Traditional charm, but preferably with co-working and matcha.

You get the idea.

And when everyone piles into the same handful of places, the results are predictable: locals get priced out, communities become seasonal, resentment grows, and suddenly the “friendly local atmosphere” everyone came for starts disappearing.

But here is the thing: Greece is not short of beautiful places.

Like many countries in Southern Europe, its problem is not lack of destinations—it is lack of distribution. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of towns, smaller cities and under-the-radar areas that have housing stock, talent, charm and infrastructure, but far less economic momentum than the obvious hotspots.

And this is where the smarter nomad may start looking next.

Because if remote work has any real long-term value beyond letting people answer emails in linen shirts, it should be this: the ability to distribute economic activity more evenly.

A digital nomad living for six months in an overlooked coastal town, a regional city, or a quieter inland destination can bring far more value than pressure. They spend money year-round, support local businesses in the off-season, bring outside ideas and skills, and help create demand in places that often desperately need it.

In other words, they stop behaving like tourists who happen to own a laptop and start behaving like temporary residents.

And perhaps that is where the whole movement needs to mature a little.

Because “ethical nomadism” cannot just mean posting about sustainability while ordering Ubers to the beach. It may increasingly mean thinking about where your presence is actually helpful—and where it is simply adding pressure to a place already struggling under its own popularity.

So no, Greece is not “over” as a digital nomad destination.

Far from it.

But perhaps the easy version of Greece—the cheap, dreamy, everyone-goes-there version—is starting to fade.

And maybe that is not a bad thing.

Because perhaps the next chapter of nomadism is not about finding the next hotspot before everyone else ruins it.

Perhaps it is about being thoughtful enough not to ruin it in the first place.

The question is no longer whether digital nomads belong in Greece.

It is whether they are ready to behave less like tourists… and a little more like the global citizens they so often claim to be.

The company that once disrupted hospitality is now slowly rebuilding it—just with better branding, nicer UX, and fewer men in waistcoats.

There was a time when Airbnb felt genuinely rebellious.

Booking one used to mean you were the kind of traveller who did not want the beige safety of a chain hotel, the awkward mini bar, or the receptionist asking if you had “enjoyed the facilities.” It meant you wanted something different. Something more authentic. A flat in a real neighbourhood. A kitchen you would never use. A vague fantasy of “living like a local” while paying triple the rent of the actual locals downstairs.

But like every disruptor that survives long enough, Airbnb has spent the last few years going through the most predictable corporate transformation imaginable: slowly becoming the very thing it once positioned itself against.

Its latest announcement is perhaps the clearest example yet.

The company has launched private airport transfer services in 125 cities across Europe, Asia and Latin America, allowing travellers to book airport pickups directly through the Airbnb app when reserving accommodation. Through a partnership with Welcome Pickups, guests can now arrange to be met at arrivals by a driver holding a sign, add optional sightseeing stops, and organise their return journey without ever needing to decipher whether the local transport app of choice is Uber, Bolt, Grab, Careem, Yandex, or simply “a man named Stefano who may or may not arrive.”

On paper, this is being framed as a simple convenience update. A practical little feature to make arrivals smoother and reduce travel stress.

But let us be honest: this is not about airport taxis.

This is about Airbnb making it increasingly clear that it no longer wants to merely provide somewhere for you to sleep. It wants to control the entire travel experience around that stay.

Because if you have noticed Airbnb’s direction over the past couple of years, this fits a very obvious pattern. First came the accommodation. Then the “experiences.” Then the chefs, massage therapists, photographers, spa services, beauty treatments and personal trainers. Now come airport transfers. Piece by piece, Airbnb is no longer building a booking platform. It is building a full-stack travel ecosystem designed to keep users inside its universe from the moment they land until the moment they begrudgingly return home.

And the irony is almost too perfect.

The company that built its global reputation by selling itself as the anti-hotel alternative is now desperately trying to recreate the exact same thing hotels have offered for decades. Concierge. Transfers. In-room services. Guest experiences. Add-ons. Convenience. Premium hospitality. The only real difference is that instead of speaking to a concierge desk, you now do it through an app with softer fonts and a more minimalist interface.

For digital nomads and frequent travellers, though, this makes complete sense.

Because whatever romantic nonsense the travel industry still likes to sell, most modern travellers are not looking for “adventure” every second of the day. After an eight-hour flight, very few people want to battle public transport maps in a foreign language, haggle with aggressive taxi drivers, or stand outside arrivals trying to remember which local ride-share app requires a different SIM card and an act of God to function.

People increasingly want convenience. They want predictability. They want friction removed from every part of the journey. Especially remote workers, who often arrive carrying enough electronics to invade a small country and have absolutely no interest in “embracing the chaos” of travel after thirty.

Airbnb knows this. More importantly, it knows convenience creates dependency. The more parts of your trip it controls, the more valuable—and harder to replace—it becomes.

That is why this matters more than the airport transfer itself.

Because what Airbnb is really building is not just a better accommodation marketplace. It is trying to become the operating system of modern travel: one platform where you book where you stay, how you arrive, what you do, who cooks for you, who massages you, and eventually perhaps what toothbrush you use while there if they can find a way to monetise it.

It is a smart move. A very smart move.

But it also says something bigger about the travel industry in 2026: the era of specialised platforms may be ending. Everyone wants to become a super-app. Everyone wants to own the whole customer journey. Nobody wants to just provide one service anymore when they can insert themselves into every possible step between your departure gate and your return flight.

And so Airbnb, once the plucky startup that promised to “change how people travel,” now finds itself in the wonderfully ironic position of becoming what it once mocked: a hospitality giant trying to sell you convenience, service, and curated comfort at every stage of your stay.

Only now it is doing it while pretending this is somehow revolutionary.

It isn’t revolutionary, of course.

It is just hospitality again.

But, to be fair, it does look much cooler in app form.

An estimated 165,000 UK professionals have left Britain (2025 data) to work remotely from abroad, according to recent reporting by LiveCareer UK, in what is becoming less of a temporary travel trend and more of a structural lifestyle shift.

And frankly, few are surprised.

Between a prolonged cost-of-living squeeze, grey weather, increasingly expensive housing, and the slow collapse of the traditional “live near London because that’s where work is” mindset, many British professionals have realised something fairly obvious: if your office is your laptop, geography becomes optional.

What started as pandemic-era experimentation has now evolved into something more mature. The era of the chaotic backpack-and-Airbnb nomad is gradually being replaced by the rise of the “slomad” — remote workers choosing longer stays, better infrastructure, and destinations where life feels sustainable rather than simply Instagrammable.

So where are British digital nomads heading?

Spain Still Leads the Pack

Unsurprisingly, Spain remains the most popular European destination for UK remote workers.

And yes, part of that is because it offers the fantasy package many Brits seem genetically programmed to desire: sunshine, tapas, walkable cities, and the ability to complain about the heat instead of the rain.

But Spain’s popularity is not just about weather.

Its Digital Nomad Visa has become one of Europe’s better-known relocation schemes, offering legal residency for remote workers earning roughly €2,700+ per month, alongside access in some cases to favourable non-resident tax treatment.

Infrastructure also helps. Spain consistently ranks among Europe’s leaders for broadband quality, and cities such as Barcelona, Valencia, and Madrid now offer mature coworking ecosystems, international communities, and a social scene specifically tailored to remote professionals.

That said, Spain is increasingly facing the same challenge many “nomad hotspots” eventually encounter: popularity creates pressure. Rising rents, overcrowding, and local frustration in some major hubs are making parts of the country less idyllic than the marketing brochures suggest.

Portugal Remains Attractive — But No Longer the “Cheap Secret”

Portugal continues to perform strongly, particularly in hubs such as Lisbon, Porto, and Madeira.

Portugal built much of its modern international reputation by aggressively embracing remote workers, startups, and expats before many competitors did. Its D8 Digital Nomad Visa, English-speaking environment, startup culture, and Atlantic lifestyle made it one of Europe’s breakout relocation stories.

However, Portugal’s image as the affordable paradise of Western Europe is beginning to age.

Housing prices have surged significantly in Lisbon and Porto, and local backlash toward inbound remote workers has grown louder. Many still move there, but increasingly with the understanding that Portugal is no longer the bargain it once was.

Croatia Is Winning Over the Lifestyle Crowd

Croatia has quietly become one of Europe’s strongest rising contenders.

Its dedicated digital nomad permit allows eligible non-EU citizens to stay for up to a year, and one of its main attractions remains its relatively favourable tax treatment for qualifying remote workers.

Beyond bureaucracy, Croatia offers what many nomads increasingly prioritise: Mediterranean climate, coastal beauty, relative affordability, and enough infrastructure to function professionally without feeling overdeveloped.

Cities like Split and Dubrovnik have become particularly popular among those seeking a slower pace without giving up lifestyle quality.

Estonia Appeals to the Tech Purists

Then there is Estonia, which continues to attract a more niche but loyal crowd.

If Spain and Croatia sell sunshine, Estonia sells efficiency.

Its reputation as one of the most digitally advanced societies in the world remains unmatched, with nearly all public services available online and an e-Residency programme that has made it especially attractive to founders, freelancers, and digitally native entrepreneurs.

The downside, naturally, is that not everyone dreams of leaving Britain’s grey skies in search of… slightly colder grey skies.

And Yes — Italy Is Quietly Becoming One of Europe’s Most Desired New Destinations

While not mentioned in every mainstream ranking yet, Italy is increasingly emerging as one of the most discussed and searched-for destinations among remote workers and relocation platforms.

Why?

Because Italy offers something many mature digital nomads begin craving after the honeymoon phase of nomadism fades: quality of life with cultural depth.

Unlike destinations built primarily around “nomad infrastructure,” Italy’s appeal is broader and more lifestyle-driven. It combines climate, food, beauty, healthcare, established infrastructure, and enormous geographic variety - from major cities like Milan and Rome to smaller lifestyle hubs such as Palermo, Lecce, and Cagliari.

Italy also formally launched its own Digital Nomad Visa framework in recent years, although - being Italy - it has taken longer than some hoped to become fully streamlined.

Still, the interest is there. In multiple international relocation and remote work rankings from platforms such as Nomad List, Global Citizen Solutions, and VisaGuide over the past two years, Italy has consistently appeared among Europe’s fastest-rising aspirational destinations for remote professionals.

Its particular strength lies in appealing not just to young backpacking freelancers, but to what many are now calling “executive nomads”: older, higher-income professionals and entrepreneurs looking less for cheap beer and beanbags, and more for beauty, stability, and a life that feels worth living.

The Bigger Picture: This Is No Longer Just About Travel

The most interesting part of this story is not where people are going.

It’s why.

This migration reflects a broader reassessment of what work should support. For decades, professionals were expected to organise life around career. Increasingly, remote workers are doing the opposite: organising work around life.

And when given that freedom, many are deciding that endless commuting, bad weather, expensive rent, and £8 meal deals are perhaps not the pinnacle of modern civilisation after all.

The real winner in this shift may not be any one country, but the destinations that understand one thing better than others: remote workers are no longer simply chasing Wi-Fi.

They are chasing a better way to live.