The Day the Nutella Died
As the days passed, five sweaty, stinky young men began to wear on each others nerves. It was really nothing new since we had all been on missions and had dealt with the 24/7 companion. Only rarely did tempers flare and words exchange to the point of someone getting really upset. And then it happened.
Three weeks into the journey, we were in Stockholm Sweden, the land of Milk and Honeys. We were having a great time in one of the greatest cities in the world. As was customary, one of us was put in charge of caring for and transporting the Nutella. Our financial circumstances had come to the point of all five us sharing a single jar of Nutella for almost every meal. In Stockholm the Nutella was saddled to the side of someone’s back pack (the bearer will remain anonymous.) As we were dashing across a busy road in down town Stockholm, it happened. Almost in slow motion. We all turned in unison just to watch our food source come flying off the carrier and smash against the concrete.
We just stood there. In the middle of the road, speechless. At that moment, everything changed. Nobody spoke for the rest of the day. We retired to our camping spot, rolled out our sleeping bags and went to sleep. The next morning we woke up, rolled up our bags, and slit up. Two groups going their separate ways. Two would head to Norway, two would head to Switzerland, and one would end up going home early, broke and defeated. That day changed our trip. The day the Nutella died.