"I Think He Builds Differently"

Over the past few years, I've been on a search for a more intentional life. Step by step, I've been allowed to grow — sometimes on purpose, sometimes led by something bigger than me. That's how the road brought me here, to this particular place.

We're not on the shore of Lake Lucerne. No Alpine view outside the door. And still — the Bio-top has a feeling all its own. In the middle of a piece of land, dotted with small tiny apartments, something has grown that's more than a housing development.

My landlord, Rico Gabathuler, isn't just another resident here. He's the one who designed all of it, and built much of it with his own hands. Heart, imagination, practical skill, a wide way of seeing — that's what shaped this place, until living, nature, and community found each other here in a way that's hard to describe until you've stood in it.

What follows is based on a conversation with Rico — told in my own words, not as a straight interview. It's an attempt to reflect how he actually thinks: grounded, considered, without performance. The way he is — calm, precise, clear.

At the Beginning

...there was a simple idea. A small live-work house, self-built, on his parents' land. The planning was far along. Everything ready. And then — a break. A heart attack, at 38. And with it, the sudden end of a dream.

But the idea wouldn't let him go. Over time he started seeing the land differently — not just space for a project anymore, but a place with something in it, waiting. Slowly, a new idea took shape: tiny houses. Not as a trend. As a way of standing in the world. Each house set carefully, in direct relationship to a tree that was already there.

Rico knew early on: the place shouldn't bend to the plan. The plan should bend to the place. No clear-cutting. No forcing things into a grid. Not an intervention — a conversation.

Then came the bypass surgery. And something that may have been a near-death experience. The idea of finally starting suddenly had an edge to it. A direction.

Financially speaking, what he calls, half-joking, his family's inheritance, became the capital to start with. Not much. Enough. What does a good life mean to him? Being sheltered, rooted in a place that holds you. And staying open — every day — to whatever moment of happiness shows up.

Architecture Against the Current

When I asked Rico why he chose tiny apartments, the answer came fast, almost with feeling. It was never about density for its own sake. It was about density done gently. Respect for the garden that was already growing there. And the chance to live with less — less stuff, more quality.

What stayed with me was how much he cares about every living thing here being treated as an equal.

What mattered to him most, in the design? The nerve to think against the current. Against the usual logic of architecture, of economics. Minimalist, yes — but never empty. Depth instead. Pleasure. Attention.

One moment stuck with him. An architect happened to be walking by, looked around, and said flatly: "Something like this should really be illegal." Rico just grinned. "I think he builds differently," he said, calm as ever. "But honestly — that was the nicest compliment I've had."

Community

Rico always knew he wanted more than housing. It was never really about the buildings, the materials, the property lines. It was about whether architecture could help people feel connected to each other. Not through rules. Through atmosphere.

Anyone who wants to live here meets a kind of informal profile before they ever sign a lease. Not a test of perfection — a question of willingness. For Rico, community can't be manufactured. It grows slowly, sideways, through small gestures, through nearness.

What moves him most are the gatherings. Not as events — as spaces where people connect. A sense of belonging. A moment of real closeness.

Roots

One of Rico's favorite moments was his first night inside the architecture he'd built himself. In that quiet, he noticed something that's stayed with him ever since: the old Scots pine standing right by his door. He planted it with his father, sixty years ago.

And if you ask him to describe the Bio-top in three words? He won't give you three words. He gives you a picture.

Vision

For the Bio-top's future, Rico wants a kind of security that doesn't run through ownership. Through trust instead. Through participation, through shared responsibility. The idea: resist accumulating private property, and build something communal in its place.

His vision goes further than any structure. He dreams of small, modular tiny houses appearing throughout the park — "artfully scattered," in his words. Not more square footage. More variety. And maybe, every now and then, a different face entirely: the Bio-top as a small, quiet cultural space.

Afterword

Some people don't make much noise. They change places anyway. Quietly. Carefully. With an eye for it, and a feel for it. Rico is one of those people.

What moves me isn't only what he built. It's how. Not against the place — with it. Not above the people around him — beside them. Not loud. Clear.

In a world that talks so much about speed and possession, he stands for something else. Quality. Nearness. The right measure of things. A life that holds you without pressing down on you. A community that breathes.