Moving to another country was the first culture shock.  Suddenly I was in Germany, surrounded by another culture and another language.  Then the career change: instead of sitting behind a desk, whether as a student or as a proofreader, I had become a nanny, then an English teacher, then a full-time freelance writer.  Then I blew all the other changes right out of the water and moved into a little wooden gypsy caravan on a piece of squatted land on the outskirts of one of Europe’s most metropolitan cities.

In town, bankers sipped 8-euro drinks and talked about their stock portfolios, while I lived with a bunch of adventurous nomadic types with brightly colored hair and wild dreadlocks, without electricity, carrying water 100-meters from the faucet to my little house or the community kitchen, chopping firewood to fire up the woodstove, reading by candlelight.

Living in a little blue wagon

My new home was a little blue wagon—“Oh my god you live in a fairy-tale shoe!” friends back in the states exclaimed when I showed them pictures—about three meters long, with a mini tower on the back for the lofted bed and (dream of dreams!) a roof that I could flip open to let in the warm summer breeze.  I had a desk, shelves, a vanity, a chair, a clothes chest, storage space, a cute little woodstove, and more space than I’d had in the apartment in town I’d paid 300 euros a month for.  Most of my neighbors had solar electricity, which I borrowed to charge my cell phone and laptop.

There was a telephone wagon, a communal kitchen, a library wagon, Internet, two washing machines, and even a pub and a movie theater.  Everything was new and exciting and adventurous.  The air smelled sweeter, even food tasted better.  A 5-euro a month rent has a way of making you feel freer than you’ve ever imagine possible.  Short on money this month?  No problem, pay next time.  Lost your job?  The community’s here to get you through it.  It’s not like you have to worry about getting evicted.  Unless you’re a complete @hole who isn’t interested in participating in a community.  But then you probably wouldn’t have moved here in the first place.

I spend my days chopping wood, writing, drinking a coffee or two with neighbors, writing some more, stopping to help someone move or build something.

My favorite time was when it rained.  When it rained I could stay in reading all day, the rain tapping gently on the roof outside, so close, always a reminder of how cozy it was to be inside, the crackling of the fire beside me, relaxed, no outside pressures forcing me out into the rain to meet a client or a deadline.  It was a quiet time—rain or not—and a quiet community, a place of rest, recuperation, interlude, and, sometimes, solitude.

Moving on again

But solitude, well, it’s not my bag, so, in the tradition of thousands of years of nomads before me, I moved on to the next Wagonplatz in the next city.  I had visited a Platz deep in the forest, but it, too was too isolated, so, in search of more energy and more action, I decided on a Platz on a university campus and attached to a squatted house, home to voküs and concerts and exhibits and lectures and discussions and film screenings.  And because of the electricity, a 40-euro monthly rent.

After another community meeting and another nervous introduction, I got a “yes,” and I moved in.  There was always something to do or paint or fix or clean or build.  There was always someone cooking, someone to share a meal or a beer with, a pub night that needed someone to man the bar, a concert that needed to be planned or visiting bands that needed to get fed and shown around, wood to be collected and chopped, bands practicing in the house basement, people gathered in the 12-meter community wagon to watch a video or play a board game.

Officially a resident

After seven years of moving from place to place at least once annually, I felt myself settling in.  After years of boxes in cellars and attics, all of my books were unpacked and in one place, and I was planning to put in a vegetable garden come spring.  A lot of my friends can’t imagine living in a wagon, having to chop wood and light a fire daily in the winter, having to walk to another building to go to the kitchen or the bathroom, living with 20 other people, making consensus decisions and giving up cable TV.  But it’s another adventure, another journey, frustrating at times but more exciting than any studio apartment with all the fix-ins ever could be.

So I went and committed.  I did it today.  In Germany you’re required to register your address at the Bürgeramt within a few weeks of moving.  I had been on the road, visiting friends here, crashing a few weeks there, floating off in whatever direction the wind blew me for months.  It was starting to wear.  I was ready.  So I did it today; I marched down to the registration office, dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s, and now I have a rather unimpressive piece of paper that says I’m an official resident of this city.  That is, until another place gets my attention, and take my new house a’traveling to try something new on for size.

Read more of Nikki’s work  at:
http://www.clickclackgorilla.com