Leaving the UK and Becoming a Traveller
In 2008 I left the UK and Belfast. At that time I was told that only half of the financing for my projects could be supported, and that finding matching funds in Northern Ireland would be unlikely. Without stable work or realistic business opportunities, living in such an expensive country became difficult.
Some of my interactions with local institutions also became complicated. A misunderstanding about my attempts to present my work to the BBC escalated in ways I did not expect, and I suddenly found myself treated as someone causing “stress and anxiety”. The situation felt surreal and deeply discouraging.
When restrictions were placed on my use of computers and the Internet, I felt that my circumstances no longer made sense. If someone is restricted from basic tools needed for work or communication, then at least a person should have access to basic support. Instead, I found myself without income and effectively on the street. Out of frustration and confusion, I protested in front of a police station, asking for clarity and support. To their credit, many people in Northern Ireland were kind — strangers often gave me five pounds or more just so I could get by.
During one court hearing I was placed in a glass enclosure and not allowed to read the statement I had prepared for nearly a year. That moment left a strong impression on me and shaped my decision to leave the UK altogether.
Around the same time, I had been talking online with a group of girls living somewhere in central France. Their messages were warm and encouraging, and eventually I decided to travel there — not realizing how difficult it would be to access the Internet in rural France.
Eventually the girls I had been planning to visit disappeared with a car that had been partly purchased with my last money. Once again I found myself alone, unsure what to do next. I spent some time in Limoges, where the local social restaurant offered surprisingly good free meals. But as winter approached, I needed to move further south.
That is how I ended up in Barcelona. During my first days there it rained so heavily that hitchhiking south was impossible, and I became stuck in the city.
When the weather improved, my first priority was to get a library card — the most important document for a homeless person. A library is a warm place during cold or rainy days, and it provides access to the Internet, which has always been essential for me.
After trying a few social restaurants in Barcelona, where you could receive only three meals with your passport and the portions left you hungrier than before, I was fortunate to discover the Sisters of Mother Teresa. They offered enough food to get through the day, and I have relied on them during three winters now.
People I Met on the Road
One of the people I met there was a man known as Romanov Bin Laden — a nickname he carried from his years fighting in Afghanistan. He was a large, strong man, weighing around 110 kilos, and he used to joke that the social restaurants in Barcelona made you lose more calories walking there than you gained from the food. He said that if a Siberian mother heard how her son was being fed, she would march in with a gun to defend him.
He often talked about wanting to retire in Siberia, watching his breath freeze before it reached the ground. But I think some Germans eventually took him in, because I haven’t seen him around lately.
Among the people I met in Barcelona were Alex, a street musician from Detroit, and Kathy, a single mother from Chicago who lived on a boat with her eleven-year-old daughter. Two more interesting characters passed through the park during that time as well.
I admired Kathy. She was a woman in her fifties, full of energy and optimism, convinced that she could still become a pop star and record a number-one disco hit to earn a living. Her determination was inspiring.
Another person I met was a man from Lebanon who had once been a university professor of Arabic language. When the war began, his views were considered too liberal, and he had to leave the country. The European social system eventually took him in, and he spent much of his time in treatment for alcoholism — a process that can take more than a year. He told me a great deal about the structure of extremist groups and how misinformation had shaped many political decisions in the West.
There was also a man who had walked all the way from Berlin with his dog — because hitchhiking with a dog is nearly impossible. He was heading toward Africa, hoping to find a place where, in his words, “some civilized values might still remain,” since it was once the birthplace of human civilization.
Another friend I made was a homeless Basque man who seemed to know everything about the underground world — from political movements to international drug routes. His stories were a mix of hard reality and street wisdom.
Surviving in Southern Europe
My first winter in Barcelona went surprisingly well. I found a hidden sleeping spot in the bushes of Park Olímpic, quiet enough to feel safe and close enough to the city to survive. At the same time, I hoped to help Pauli Visuri from AddWit Ltd with Internet marketing for his Team Messenger project. I believed I could bring him steady traffic and visibility, but he preferred to handle everything himself. The project never reached its potential, and with it disappeared my hope of earning enough to buy a MacBook and start developing iPhone apps. I had offered him a plan that once brought 20–30 visitors per day and a solid conversion rate, but the site ended up with less than one visitor daily.
Another surprise came from my bank. Before leaving Belfast, I had specifically asked Halifax whether I could use my account and card abroad. They assured me it would work, with a small fee per transaction. In reality, the exchange rate left me with fewer euros than pounds, and my card was close to expiring. When I requested a new card, they told me it could be sent anywhere I was staying. Unfortunately, that turned out not to be true.
When the card finally expired, I could no longer access my funds. I went to the Halifax office in Barcelona, where they initially said it would be fine and might take a few days. Later, Halifax UK replied that a person requesting funds must present a valid card, and a person requesting a new card must live at a registered address. It was a bureaucratic loop with no exit.
Spain offered little hope for work. The official unemployment rate was around 28%, but many small businesses operated informally, so the real number felt much higher. Finding a job as a foreigner without an address or documents was nearly impossible.
By April, I was exhausted from asking for money on the street. I decided to hitchhike toward the Cannes Film Festival, hoping to understand the atmosphere and opportunities there. On the way, I passed through Arles — a beautiful French town where mornings came with free coffee, even if food was harder to find.
Cannes Film Festival
The Cannes Film Festival turned out to be a disappointment for me. All I really saw were ageing paparazzi, young people chasing drama, and bicycle police explaining that the local mayor did not appreciate people asking for money on the street. It felt strange to be told that simply trying to survive was unwelcome. I protested briefly in front of the City Hall and eventually found a place where free food was available. Compared to other French towns, however, the portions in Cannes were minimal — a bit of bread, a cup of hot water with packet soup, and a small tin of meat or salad. It was never enough for a full day.
What I truly missed in Cannes were good films. Later I was relieved to discover the open-air cinema at Parc de la Villette in Paris, where they still showed the kind of movies people genuinely wanted to watch. It reminded me how important it is to preserve real film culture.
After Cannes, I decided to return to Barcelona, where I still had access to computers in the public library. On the way back I passed through Nîmes, and the social services there were exceptional. In the mornings you could get a shower and a small breakfast; at midday two different restaurants offered excellent meals for one euro; in the afternoon there was coffee and cake; and in the evening the SAMU Social van provided soup and a sandwich. Over the next two years the system changed slightly, but the support remained generous.
Back in Barcelona during the summer, a group of young Romanians came to the park where I slept and stole my mobile phone. That pushed me to move north again in search of work. After passing through Paris, I eventually reached the Netherlands and found a job near Rotterdam on my third day there.
Life and Work in the Netherlands
The Netherlands, however, was not a place I felt comfortable in. Asking for help on the street was not allowed, even though many people were willing to give something. Drinking a simple can of beer in public could result in a fine. Once, after buying a sandwich and a beer near a supermarket, the police told me I could be charged 200 euros for drinking in a public place. I asked them to take me to prison instead, where at least I could get a warm meal, but they refused.
I ended up working and living with other migrant workers from Poland, cutting paprika in greenhouses. Finding temporary work had become increasingly difficult — many agencies required people to apply from Poland, submit a CV, pass an interview, and then be transported to the Netherlands as part of an organized group. It felt as if the system had become overly complicated for simple seasonal work.
I was never particularly good at cutting paprika in the greenhouses. I managed around 120–150 kilos per hour, while some of the Polish workers pushed themselves far harder, often working at incredible speed. After work many of them relaxed with loud music and various substances, and I quickly realized that this environment wasn’t a good fit for me.
Still, I earned a few hundred euros — enough to continue my journey. I returned to Paris, spent some time again in Nîmes, and eventually made my way back to Barcelona for the coming winter.
France again
Paris offers several places where you can get free food: Restos du Cœur, the Sisters of Mother Teresa, Salvation Army vans and others. You won’t go hungry if you’re willing to wait in line, though sometimes the atmosphere can be chaotic, especially around the Place de la Bataille de Stalingrad.
During that period I had posted an article criticizing certain British software companies, written in a moment of frustration. Surprisingly, the wife of one company owner contacted me afterward, asking whether I could help them with SEO work. I accepted, and the small income helped me get through another winter in Barcelona.
Some things that are easy in France are much harder in Barcelona — especially getting a shower or washing clothes. More than once I hitchhiked to Perpignan just to wash my laundry, though usually I needed to save up seven euros for it. Free showers were available mainly for people in addiction programs, so for someone like me the only option was Poble Sec, where you had to queue and collect a number the day before.
In April 2010 I returned to France again. The libraries in Barcelona had closed for a full week during Pascua, leaving me with little to do, and I found myself missing French food as well.
Cannes, Slovenia and the Road Through the Alps
After another uneventful year at the Cannes Film Festival, I decided to travel to Slovenia. The previous year I had met a Slovenian producer at the Producers Network — one of the few people there who seemed to have real ideas. She never replied to my email, so I thought it might be worth meeting her in person. Ljubljana turned out to be a small but charming city, full of friendly people with a great sense of humor. I loved their sculptures — especially the line of naked figures “waiting to join the EU” in front of the European office, and the artwork in their parliament building.
The economy in the south of France looked bleak at the time. When I passed through Monaco on a Saturday evening, the streets were almost empty. I saw only two groups of teenagers, and even the Monte Carlo casinos were quiet. It felt as if the old glamour of Cannes and Monaco had faded.
My own projects were probably too ambitious for the people I approached, and I received no interest from the producer or from Slovenian National TV regarding my documentaries.
Slovenia was beautiful, but surprisingly expensive for the Eurozone. People were kind, but the cost of living was high. The homeless center in Ljubljana offered warm soup and bread, but I had grown used to the more generous free meals available in France.
So I returned to France. Since I had never managed to reach the highway tunnel from Torino, I had crossed the mountains several times on foot. The small mountain roads were stunning, and I would recommend them to anyone — the scenery alone is worth the effort.
On my way back toward Paris, I met a girl of Greek–Croatian origin who asked for help moving south from a small village called Rossy near Annecy. Annecy itself is a beautiful town near Geneva, with a lake surrounded by mountains. But there was little work there, so she had decided to relocate to a place called Le Port Bou. I was surprised that she was leaving her three-room country house for a small flat in social housing, but she seemed to be someone who valued freedom more than comfort. We packed her belongings into her grandmother’s apartment or threw away what didn’t fit, since her new place had very limited space.
She paid me a bit for helping, and I was finally able to buy myself a pair of French military boots. It had been frustrating to wear shoes that lasted only three months. Estonian military boots had lasted me at least two years, so I was curious to see how long the French ones would survive.
There was a small chance I could get temporary work at a nearby amusement park called Magic Land, but by the time I arrived, the hiring was already complete. So I found myself back in Nîmes once again.
Mobile App and Munich Documentary World
While staying in Nîmes, I noticed that the WIP Jam mobile applications event was taking place in Marseille. I registered and attended, meeting several Nokia representatives who were trying to encourage developers to build apps for their platform. Seeing the work of other developers convinced me that I had a real chance in the mobile market — many of the apps with millions of downloads were not created by people more skilled than I was.
I even reached out again to some British contacts through the Mobile Monday group, hoping to collaborate. The conversations didn’t go well, and I felt that my abilities were being dismissed rather than evaluated fairly. My own experience had always been different: I wrote clean code quickly, rarely needed bug fixes, and had delivered complete systems in weeks rather than the long timelines common in larger companies. Back in 1995, when we competed in the World Championship of Programming, we had to deliver a full working solution within 48 hours.
After Marseille, I asked a few friends whether they could help me secure some funding for mobile app development. I returned to Paris to think about a “killer app” idea — and to enjoy some wine. In early September, the SVG Developers Conference took place in Paris, and I managed to arrange a free pass. To my surprise, the SVG clips I had created in 2006 still worked only with the Opera browser and Ikivo drivers. While everyone was excited that Microsoft had added partial SVG support to Internet Explorer, I was shocked that my clips still didn’t work properly with WebKit after five years.
My next stop was Munich. I borrowed 100 euros from a friend to attend the Discovery Campus documentary pitching event, hoping to sell some of my documentary ideas. But it was difficult to connect with commissioning editors, and the budgets other participants were seeking — often in the hundreds of thousands — felt completely out of proportion to the kind of documentary work I believed in. For me, a professional documentary could be made in the 10–20K range, and a true documentarian should be someone who puts a camera in a backpack and goes to places others haven’t, rather than spending months in an office preparing scripts and budgets.
In Munich I met an interesting Armenian man who talked about wanting to symbolically claim parts of the South and North Pole for Armenia. When I mentioned that I knew people who had organized expeditions to the South Pole and could help him, he suddenly seemed less certain about the idea.
I still had some hope for Channel 4 and YLE Finland, but things did not progress. Ann Miralis, now a commissioning editor at Channel 4, was not as receptive as Angus McQueen had once been. YLE Finland replied that my projects were “too general to have general interest,” which, in a way, was still an improvement over the BBC’s earlier response that “nations and countries we have no information about cannot be of interest to our audience.” I also reached out to MDR in Germany, but Dr. Claudia Schiffner never responded.
Back in Barcelona
With that, I hurried back to Barcelona to start writing down my mobile app specifications. As much as I liked Paris, it was difficult to work there — library computers allowed only limited website access and only in fifteen-minute sessions.
During my research I found some promising algorithms for object recognition using mobile phone camera photos, and I wanted to test them in real life. If I had had a computer since finishing the specifications in September, the app might already have been on the market. My goal had been to compete in the App Planet competition during the World GSM Congress in February, but without funding that hope was fading. My friends had not been able to raise financing for me.
I tried asking Nokia for a simple netbook and a mobile device, sending them my specifications, but without success. The Nokia people I met at the bDigital mobile apps event in Barcelona were enthusiastic about my ideas, and it seemed that my name was becoming known inside the company — but practical help never materialized. Asking for support from the Mobile Monday London group was another discouraging experience, and posting on mobility.mobi didn’t lead anywhere either.
Still, the event confirmed something important: there was no real competition for the kind of ideas I had. My approach and my concepts were different from what others were doing.
I made what I believed was a fair offer: why pay $2–$3 per visitor to mobile ad networks when you could get far more traffic from my apps for a one-time fee of $250? But it seemed that very few business people still cared about return on investment in a meaningful way.
