Multiple-choice reading

Last spring, after a week of video meetings in which everyone looked tired of their own faces, I booked a train to a small coastal town I’d never visited. I told myself it was for “a change of scenery”, but the truth was simpler: I wanted to see whether work could follow me somewhere quieter without taking over the place as well. Friends who have been working remotely for years speak about freedom as if it were a permanent state. My experience so far has been more like borrowing freedom for a weekend, then paying it back with interest on Monday.

The town was the kind that appears in travel brochures in soft colours: a curved bay, old stone houses, and a row of cafés facing the sea. Yet it also had the signs of modern life that brochures tend to crop out. There were delivery vans parked on narrow streets, a new coworking space where an old bank used to be, and a poster on a noticeboard asking residents to attend a meeting about “responsible tourism”. I arrived on a windy afternoon and walked to my rented room above a bakery. The smell of warm bread felt like a welcome message, though I suspected it was simply good timing.

On my first morning, I did what I always do in a new place: I promised myself I would be “fully present”. I made coffee, opened my laptop, and immediately checked my inbox. The sea was right outside the window, but my attention stayed trapped in a chain of messages about deadlines and small misunderstandings. It wasn’t that my job was especially dramatic. It was the constant feeling that I should respond quickly, as if speed itself were a measure of professionalism. When I finally looked up, the light had changed and a group of schoolchildren were walking past, shouting with the sort of energy adults rarely allow themselves.

Later that day, I went to the coworking space out of curiosity. Inside, it was bright and tidy, with plants placed carefully on shelves and posters about “community” in a modern font. A woman at the desk told me they offered day passes for visitors. She said it in a friendly way, but I noticed a slight pause before the word “visitors”, as if she was choosing it instead of something less polite. Most of the people at the long tables were wearing headphones. They looked like they could have been anywhere: in the city, on a farm, or in an airport lounge. I wondered whether remote work makes places more equal—or whether it makes everywhere feel the same.

In the evening, I met Tom, the bakery owner, when I went downstairs to buy something sweet. He was flour-dusted and cheerful, and he asked, as locals often do, how long I was staying. When I said “just a week”, he smiled with relief that was almost comic. “A week is fine,” he said. “It’s when people decide they’re staying forever that it gets complicated.” He explained that several houses on the street had been bought by people from the city who planned to work remotely. “They’re not bad people,” he added quickly, as if he didn’t want to sound angry. “But they can pay more than locals, and then locals can’t compete. My nephew had to move inland.”

The next morning, I walked along the cliff path and tried to think about what Tom had said without turning it into a simple story of heroes and villains. It is easy to blame newcomers for rising prices, but it is also true that many towns depend on visitors to survive. The cafés and small shops I enjoyed might not exist without tourism. At the same time, I could see why residents might feel their home was becoming a product, something packaged for outsiders. There was a new sign near the beach asking people not to leave rubbish and reminding dog owners to clean up. It was polite, but the fact it was needed suggested a history of being ignored.

Midweek, I caught myself doing the same thing I complain about in others: treating the town as a background for my own story. I took photos of my laptop on the café table, with the sea behind it, as if the view could prove I had achieved “balance”. I posted one picture and received a few jealous comments. Instead of feeling pleased, I felt slightly dishonest. The photo didn’t show the hours I spent indoors, the rushed lunch eaten while reading reports, or the way my shoulders tightened each time my phone buzzed.

On my last day, the internet in my room went down for an hour. At first I panicked, imagining the messages piling up like dirty dishes. Then, because there was nothing else to do, I went outside. I watched a fisherman repairing his nets with calm patience. I sat on a bench and listened to the wind and the distant traffic, both real and ordinary sounds. When the connection returned, I answered my emails. Nothing terrible had happened. No one had fallen apart because I was briefly unreachable.

On the train home, I thought about what I would tell friends who dream of working from anywhere. I wouldn’t say it’s a fantasy. The sea really does look better than an office wall. But I’d warn them that “anywhere” is not an empty stage waiting for personal reinvention. It’s someone else’s everyday life, with its own pressures and limits. If remote work is going to be more than a private escape, we may need to be more thoughtful about how we arrive, how we spend, and how much space we take up—online and offline.