Even seemingly stoic Swedes like to have fun. My arrival in Stockholm was reminiscent of a field game that children at scout camps cannot wait for every year. Since I have never experienced a stay in this holiday facility, please, consider the similarity between carrying a 30 kg suitcase and completing the following instructions written by the host on a piece of graph paper, only as my illustrations. "Enter the building through one of the glass doors." (God knows which one, they were all locked.) "Unlock the gatehouse with the fifth key from the right. It is hanging on the hook at the height of your eyes. The keys to the apartment are in the envelope which is in one of the drawers. You will get the code to the front door easily, deduct three from F and multiply the result by the total number of windows." Eventually, I completed the test of independence and overall ability to solve the most common life situations to the level of tasks worthy of the Fort Boyard competition and I found myself in an apartment full of that strange milky light of a Northern night. However, I gushed over this natural phenomenon only until I realised that if I do not manage to fall asleep between 1 a.m. and 2 a.m., when the milk turned into something resembling coffee milk in the school cafeteria, sleep will definitely never come because the use of curtains is the same sin for residents of these regions as painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa.
Swedish hospitality fascinates me. I cannot imagine how a fellow countryman, who leaves for a month-long holiday, leaves their place with all the jewellery inherited from their grandma, with a well-stocked bar, intimate photos of a spoilt Chihuahua Amelia and instructions on how to properly change gears on a mountain bike to a complete stranger. But not so fast. The assumption that you will ride out of the city, choose a nice lawn near an abandoned cottage, set up a tent, light a fire, collect chanterelles, which for some unknown reason grew in organised double lines, and prepare a delicious scrambled egg with mushrooms, may not pay off. Instead of the desired sightings of a herd of elk, you are more likely to see the arrival of the angry owner. In this case, it is better to run away and pretend that you do not at all understand the meaning of sentences such as "who has been sitting on my bench, drinking out of my cup and picking my blueberries". Even a seemingly peace-loving pensioner can have close contacts with Thor, the god of thunder