“Tack så mycket, tack så mycket, tack… tack så mycket”, the hobo murmured. Cross-legged on the corner of Hötorget Tunnelbana station, he was uttering the equivalent of “thank you so much” in an endless loop. Probably aged around 20-ish, he often addressed me on my way to the office with a smirk on his face. He wore nice clothes for a hobo, with jacket and shirt that even appeared to be ironed. No holes noticed. He was never unshaven, and his brightly lit eyes, sneaked excitement of the things he probably planned to use his begging money for.
I vouched to never give him money. Actually I will go one step further, I vouch to never give money to hobos in Stockholm. Ever. If one of your friends who have been here told you that all Stockholm’s hobos don’t look like hobos, you better believe it, because they are right. Hobos here wear leather shoes, so stylish that makes Potato Y easily qualify as a Swedish hobo, accompanied with his laptop and a cardboard on his chest that says, “Will program for food”. (He may pick up more money than them too).
Back to the hobo I see every morning, he looks cleaner and sleeker every day, and yet he’s still begging and showing no intention to move on. Should I be happy that his life seems to be going so well, or should I be annoyed? Why can’t he find something else to do that is more useful than sitting on his arse all day?