Treating Myself to a “Dream” Linux Laptop… Twice

During the last six years, I’ve been deeply invested in Linux. Yes, I know it’s GNU/Linux, but I refuse to call it that. It had been on my radar for some time, and thanks to developments at my job, I finally saw a chance to learn more and dive into the world of open source, independence, and free software. Linux appealed to me as I started to feel the pressure of big tech—their never-ending urge to mine user data and make a product out of us, the customers. The learning curve was steep, but the prospects were promising and the process was fun, so I persisted. Over years of trial and error, I managed to navigate the intricate Linux ecosystem. I’m no expert, but I’ve cracked the code of various distributions, unusual program names, and, most importantly, the almighty terminal. That opened a whole new world—both software and hardware.

Like most people, I started with Ubuntu and Mint. They were great and served me well for a few years. But then I learned there was more: the bedrock of Debian, the professional world of Red Hat, the mysterious Fedora, and the abstract universe of Arch. Even more interesting than the distributions was the user interface. I discovered tiling window managers (thanks, DT), which opened yet another endless pit of terms, applications, subsystems, and learning opportunities.

Throughout those years, I mainly ran my systems on Dell laptops. My employer allowed me to buy older machines after their lease periods ended, and I discovered how powerful they still were. After three years, they were considered sluggish for the company—small storage, low RAM, and of course they ran Windows. But as soon as I installed Linux, it was like pouring life water on them. They happily ran anything I threw at them for years. My kids used six-year-old laptops with Zorin and were perfectly happy—Minecraft? No problem. Nextcloud? No problem. LibreOffice? Hold my beer.

After a few years, my hunger for a more powerful system grew, and my wallet’s contents finally allowed it. I told myself: “You’ve provided for the family for years. They have everything they need and more: a nice house, holidays by the sea, the dog they always wanted. Now it’s time to treat yourself.” So I started looking for my dream Linux laptop. As a European, it was important to me to support a company in the EU. I know that’s not fully possible since most components are made in China, but you get the idea.

Luckily, I had a few good options. There was Slimbook from Spain (promoted by Nick from The Linux Experiment). Then TUXEDO Computers from Germany, whose devices and pricing I liked. Schenker Technologies (a TUXEDO supplier) offered identical systems but at a slightly higher price. And then there was Framework—the absolute pinnacle of positivity, hype, and price… oh, that price.

I spent countless hours configuring my dream machine. My preferences have been the same for years: 13–14 inches, AMD CPU, 64 GB DDR5 RAM, no dedicated GPU, and preferably two M.2 SSDs. Having worked for Dell, and knowing the pain of unrepairable devices, serviceability was a must. I researched what kinds of repairs manufacturers offered—not just under warranty (which is regulated by EU law), but also for accidental damage. Most offered some options. Framework had the best approach, followed by TUXEDO. TUXEDO’s website stated: “We offer spare parts for all models, which are stored for several years. This includes components such as fans, housing parts, motherboards, keyboards, and more.” I liked that a lot. If something happened, I could buy parts and fix it. With my background and an iFixit kit, that sounded perfect.

With that settled and after a final comparison, the TUXEDO InfinityBook 14 won out. It had a slightly better CPU and cost half as much as the Framework. I paid around 1,500€, which is a lot of money for me, but I was excited to finally get my dream laptop. After two weeks, it arrived—and I was impressed. Beautiful aluminum build, great screen, more than adequate performance. My custom Arch + MangoHud/Wayland setup ran flawlessly. I was thrilled.

Then disaster struck. In 25 years of working in IT, I’ve never destroyed a laptop. I despise treating gear carelessly—these are the tools that help us make a living. My devices are always pristine, and because of that, they last far longer than expected. My seven-year-old Pixel 6 can testify to that. But with this, the first laptop I bought with my own money—it was different.

I received it on a Thursday. Early Friday morning, I had to travel far for a private matter. Over five days, I moved non-stop—several accommodations, car, ferries, walking. On the second day, packing up at a hotel, I slid my brand-new laptop into my backpack’s side compartment… and forgot to close the zipper. A few minutes later, in the car park, the laptop slipped out and hit the pavement. It was in a very thin sleeve—no real protection. The front-right corner bent slightly inward. The palm rest around the keyboard was mostly fine, but the display top cover took a bigger hit. Thankfully, the laptop still worked perfectly. The hinges were aligned, the display was unharmed, and all ports were fine. For a fall like that, it was a decent outcome.

Still, as the owner of a brand-new device, I wanted it unscuffed. Given my history of keeping things in perfect condition, I wanted to restore it to its original glory. I remembered my key requirement: repairability—and TUXEDO’s proud statement about spare parts. It was my mistake; I was willing to pay to fix it. I knew I’d voided the warranty, so parts availability was all I expected. I needed just the palm rest, display top cover, and display bezel (though I later realized the bezel wasn’t actually damaged). With my iFixit kit and Dell experience, I was confident I could do it myself.

So I emailed TUXEDO support. I admitted the accidental damage and asked to order the spare parts. I thought it was a done deal—maybe expensive, maybe a long wait, but straightforward. Instead, support told me they didn’t sell those parts directly. Their only option was to ship the laptop to them for assessment and repair in-house. I asked why their website advertised spare parts availability. The response: only small parts were available; major parts had to be replaced by them. I’m not sure why they list motherboards on the website if those count as “small parts.”

After a few emails, I relented, paid 100€ for shipping and assessment, and sent the laptop in. A few days later, TUXEDO apologized and said they couldn’t fix it because they didn’t have the necessary spare parts. The earliest availability would be March 2026. This was in October–November 2025. Ironically, they’d asked me for detailed photos of the damage (which I provided from all angles), yet they weren’t able to assess from those and also didn’t realize they had no parts—even though I’d listed exactly what was needed from the start.

So now my laptop was somewhere in Germany, I’d paid 100€ for nothing, and the machine was unfixable for the foreseeable future. TUXEDO offered to send it back “as is.” I asked them to return it and refund the assessment and shipping, which, to their credit, they did. I also asked for a repair price estimate, should parts become available. The quote was over 400€. I expected a steep price, but that was higher than even my pessimistic guess.

When the laptop came back—unharmed but unfixed—I accepted the damage as a scar that gave it character. Functionally, it was perfect: display, hinges, keyboard, ports—all fine, just a few scratches. But the feeling of a wrong choice lingered. I started to think I should have researched better and paid a premium for true repairability and the Linux spirit. I should have bought the Framework.

Two or three weeks later, the itch won. I went to the Framework site, configured the laptop—this time without RAM and SSD—and bought it. I paid over 2,000€ and now I’m waiting anxiously again. I’m not sure it will fix anything, not even my inner feeling. I paid way over my budget. My wife must never know! But at least I put my money toward a project I believe in—and appreciate even more now. If I’m clumsy again in the future, I hope I’ll be able to order the parts I need without hassle. That would be a small but meaningful sense of accomplishment.