Almost the only other occupants that ever lived in Vandrarhemmet Rallarrosen, lovingly dubbed ”the Indian Reservation”, while we were there were construction workers from Czech and Slovakia. They spoke neither Swedish nor English but were very friendly and polite. Not that we knew what they were saying.
One time a bunch of them were sitting out in the shared main area, and we thought maybe they’d like this bar of chocolate we had that neither of us really liked. We brought it out to them, they thanked us profusely, and we went back in our room. A few minutes later we heard a knock on our door, and when we opened *all* of them were crowded around the door and offered us two plates of juicy hunkin’ meat! Really manly stuff. ”No, no, it’s OK”, we tried to say, but they had these big grins on, so proud to offer us this ”delicacy”, and said ”Yes! Yes! For you!” We took it, but as soon as we got it inside and the door safely shut we burst out laughing, as quietly as we could.
We ate it, and it wasn’t half bad. They must have had a piece left over though, as a week(!) later they still had a plate in the fridge, note the fork and knife:
The pot beside it is, according to our best guess, chicken blood soup, a black, nasty smelling concoction.
All this might have been livable – they were nice guys, and not too noisy except for on weekends – but we did kind of wish they would stop walking around in their underwear.