What this digital nomad learned during the COVID-19 lockdown

When I first learned the term digital nomad, I'd been working while travelling for about a year. As a freelance writer and transcriber, my portable job enabled me to escape Newfoundland winter and to see other countries up close and personal.

I wasn't living rich, but I'd figured out how to make it work on my budget.

I did house- and pet-sitting where opportunities presented, then rented modest apartments in the countries on my wish list.

My flight costs were easily covered by the amount I saved on groceries, such was the difference in food costs between St. John's and, say, Greece or Montenegro.

It called for lots of contingency planning. My future was always some configuration of plans A, Band C.

When things were going well, I would joke that it felt like I was getting away with something.

In times when my work slowed down, it felt a bit reckless.

Pivot: a pandemic buzzword

In the past year, the ability to pivot has emerged as a key survival trait. Companies pivoted to contactless business models. Individuals pivoted to working from home while supporting their children pivoting to remote learning.

I already had the workplace pivot down to a science, but when we all had to stop travelling, I needed to pivot in a different way.

A fine line between nomad and homeless

I like the idea of being nomadic, but when suddenly facing border closures and quarantine regulations, that idea loses its romance.

My Plan A for winter 2020 was a three-month cat-sit in Cyprus, where I'd spent the previous three winters. As brute luck would have it, I was already in Canada when the pandemic hit, forced to change plans in December after a series of costly surprises unrelated to the novel coronavirus.

By March, I was on Plan D: dog-sitting in Nova Scotia, with a series of pet-sits booked well into the fall.

When COVID-19 reached Canada, my entire 2020 itinerary collapsed, and I needed to find a place to live.

Social capital

In economic terms, I have a great deal of social capital, which in non-pandemic circumstances means I have friends and family with spare bedrooms where I can crash for a night or two.

In my case, social capital means strangers trust me to live in their homes and care for their animals when they leave town.

I have loads of social capital in Newfoundland and Labrador, my home both officially and emotionally. But social capital only goes so far when there's a mystery virus on the loose. In March 2020, what I didn't have was a living space of my own.

A shift in values

I spent the first four months of lockdown with my sister in Lunenburg, N.S. As I'd done in many other places, I'd take long walks and post photos of the pretty scenery to my social media accounts.

But I felt conspicuous behaving like a tourist in full view of local people. It was a relief when, in July, I was able to "repatriate" to my home province.

It seems the pandemic has generated a shift in values. I began travelling in 2014, when rental rates in St. John's had increased beyond my means.

At that time, I was considering a move to some less costly town, anywhere in Canada. I discovered that a life of travel could be more affordable than a decent one-bedroom apartment in St. John's.

Then, in July, I was able to negotiate an affordable monthly rate on an empty Airbnb in St. John's.

Should the time come when we can resume travel, I may have to surrender this apartment back to the vacation rental economy. I hope I'll be able to resume my own travelling lifestyle then, too. My freelance work has remained steady through the pandemic, so I'm optimistic (and simultaneously knocking on wood).

I anticipate a higher demand for pet-sitters, with all the new four-legged companions that have come into people's homes in the past year.

For now, it's a relief not to have to think beyond Plan A.

More significantly, I realize that this pandemic value system has given me a new sense of legitimacy and pride in my agile way of living and working.

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