Living and Working Remotely in Georgia: A Personal Account of Mobility, Culture, and Timing

By Patric Tengelin

I’m Patric Tengelin, a writer and long-term digital nomad who lived and worked in Georgia during the pandemic years. This article combines personal experience with practical insight into why Georgia became one of the most accessible countries for remote workers—and how global mobility quietly changed along the way.

This article replaces content previously published at https://nomadaffairs.com/

How Mobility and Migration Have Changed Over Time

It’s Georgia—the country—where I personally had my most vivid and formative experience working as a digital nomad, and that’s why it has been a recurring theme in this blog. But to understand why Georgia felt so radical and memorable, it helps to step back and look at how much the world itself has changed—and how unlikely this lifestyle once was.

When I was young, long before remote work was a concept anyone used seriously, I once skipped an entire day of high school to sit in the city library in Gothenburg, Sweden. This was the early 1990s. There was no internet access, no email, no search engines. If you wanted information about another country, you didn’t “look it up”—you hunted for it.

I remember pulling heavy reference books from shelves that felt like a strange hybrid between the Yellow Pages and an encyclopedia: thick institutional directories listing universities, embassies, travel offices, shipping companies, and phone numbers that hadn’t changed in years. That particular day, I wasn’t browsing out of curiosity. I was trying to figure out how to apply to universities in places like Tahiti, Maui, and Fiji. I wanted out—and I wanted sun.

For people who haven’t lived in a place where much of the year is dominated by overcast skies and long stretches of darkness, it’s hard to understand how persistent the pull to emigrate can be. In Sweden, this longing isn’t new—it’s deeply historical.

Beginning in the mid-1840s, Swedes emigrated to the United States in great numbers, with major waves peaking in the 1880s and continuing until World War I. Economic hardship, limited land availability, and established migration chains pushed people outward. By the 1930s, more than a million Swedes had settled in America. At one point, Chicago was effectively Sweden’s third-largest city by population.

Fast forward a century and the motivations have changed. We no longer emigrate primarily to survive. Many of us leave in search of autonomy, flexibility, and a life that feels self-directed. For me, that meant following the light and warmth—often along the equator—not because of necessity, but because of choice.

When mobility became practical

Global mobility didn’t arrive all at once. It emerged slowly and unevenly.

Affordable air travel lowered the cost of distance. The internet removed information asymmetry. Online banking, cloud services, and digital tools reduced dependence on physical infrastructure. Eventually, remote work slipped quietly into the mainstream—not as a revolution, but as a series of small technical concessions that added up to freedom.

The world became navigable in a way it never had been before.

Why Georgia became pivotal

Georgia occupies a special place in my digital nomad journey not because of climate—it’s not dramatically warmer than Sweden—but because of timing.

I arrived in 2021, in the middle of the global pandemic, at a time when much of the world had shut its borders, imposed restrictions, and retreated inward. Georgia did the opposite. It remained open and introduced a government-backed initiative called “Remotely from Georgia,” allowing foreigners to enter and work remotely from within the country.

After completing the standard two-week hotel quarantine that was required at the time, I was finally free to move around the city.

I remember taking a taxi across Tbilisi to find my accommodation. When I arrived, I walked up and down the same street for nearly ten minutes, unable to locate the building. Eventually, a young woman passed by. I asked her for help.

She didn’t just point in a direction. She took out her phone, called the number I had for my landlord, spoke with him directly, and helped coordinate how I’d get inside. It turned out I was moving into the very same building she lived in. Before leaving, she told me to knock on her door if I needed anything.

I’d lived in cities like London, Madrid, and Paris. That kind of unsolicited kindness from a stranger was unheard of.

Everyday life in Tbilisi

What struck me over time was how informal and human the city felt.

It’s not unusual to see older men and women standing quietly along the roadside selling flowers—just a few small bouquets held in their hands. These aren’t formal stalls or shops. They stand on their own, often in the cold, hoping to sell enough to make ends meet. While circumstances vary, many older Georgians live on modest pensions shaped by decades of economic upheaval and systemic transition after the Soviet era. Buying flowers in those moments felt less like a transaction and more like a brief human exchange—an acknowledgment of effort, dignity, and resilience.

Near the Dry Bridge, there’s a long-standing open-air market that feels like a collective memory laid out in public. One afternoon, I noticed someone had lined the railing of the bridge with old mixed cassette tapes. For Gen Z readers: please google what those are.

The market itself is a reflection of survival and continuity—Soviet-era objects, old photographs, coins, books, electronics—items that have passed through multiple political systems and economic resets. It isn’t curated for tourists. People bring what they have and see if someone else might need it.

On another day, I saw a man who had brought five small rabbits with him, clearly hoping someone might want to buy one. Two young girls stood nearby, watching them intently. I handed the man some money and gestured toward the girls, indicating that if it was enough, he could give them one rabbit each. He understood immediately. There was no negotiation, no spectacle—just a quiet moment of understanding.

A couple of months later, I moved into King David Residences, one of the most prestigious buildings in the city. When I arrived with my belongings, I was assisted by a Persian woman representing the management company. Later that evening, she left snacks and a bottle of red wine outside my door, branded with the company logo, as a welcome gift.

That night, I stood by the window looking down at the bridge below, watching evening traffic roll across the river. I noticed a man walking slowly along the road, asking passersby for spare change. I picked up the bottle of wine and decided to bring it down to him.

As I exited through the parking level, I passed an attendant sitting alone in his booth. On impulse, I handed him the bottle instead. His face lit up instantly. I continued down toward the bridge, gave the man a few notes, and then went for a quiet evening walk as the sun set over the city.

None of this felt exceptional. It felt normal.

Practical realities for nomads

Today, Georgia remains one of the most accessible countries for long-term stays. Citizens of many nationalities can remain visa-free for up to one full year. Official information is available through Georgian authorities:
https://www.geoconsul.gov.ge

If you stay more than 183 days in a calendar year, you become a tax resident. Georgia offers a flat 20% personal income tax for individuals, and certain small-business structures can reduce this dramatically. Because tax and residency rules can change—and vary by situation—it’s wise to seek professional guidance. Firms like Expat Hub, with offices in Tbilisi, specialize in immigration and tax matters for foreigners.

Accommodation is widely available, from short-term rentals to long-term leases. For anyone considering property ownership, the most commonly used local platform is:
https://www.myhome.ge

For insurance, it’s important to have coverage that works internationally and doesn’t depend on a single country. Services designed for nomads and remote workers offer flexibility and location independence.

From imagined escape to lived reality

What once felt like a distant fantasy—escaping the cold, designing your own life, working without a fixed location—has become not only possible, but practical. The barriers that once made this impossible were external. Today, they are mostly internal.

Georgia mattered to me because it removed friction at exactly the right moment. It showed me that mobility didn’t have to be chaotic or extreme. It could be structured, legal, human, and sustainable.

The world that once required encyclopedias, phone books, and blind hope now fits inside a laptop. The sunlit places I once imagined from a gray library table in Gothenburg are no longer abstractions. They’re places you can arrive in, live in, and leave—on your own terms.

And that shift—from longing to lived experience—is perhaps the most profound change of all.

About the author

Patric Tengelin is a writer and long-term digital nomad who documents life across countries through lived experience rather than short stays. His work focuses on slow travel, global mobility, adapting to new cultures, and building sustainable lives without excess. He writes from extended stays across Europe, Latin America, and the Caucasus.

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Living and Working Remotely in Georgia: A Personal Account of Mobility, Culture, and Timing