Thursday, December 14, 2006

The Day the Nutella Died

Five friends on the trip of a lifetime. With nothing more than a backpack full of camping equipment and a return ticket home four and a half weeks later, we arrived in Paris France, ready to conquer the world, or at least Europe. We had no plans and no reservations. Rather we put our faith in a little book called Let’s Go Europe. We saw 13 countries in a little over 30 days. Mostly we slept on trains, with the occasional back yard, and park (Versailles) to mix things up. The first thing we would do upon arriving in a new city was to find out where the nearest McDonalds was. That is where we ate, and no where else. After about 20 straight meals at the Golden Arches, we set a pattern of only eating at McDonalds for lunch and dinner, and adopted a hearty meal of bread and Nutella for breakfast. As the days went on the Nutella staple began to replace the McDonalds. Yes, it was that good.

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.

9 Comments:

Blogger King Family said...

I don't want Seth to read this post. I think he only has one regret for marrying me-he didn't get to go on this trip.....

9:32 PM  
Blogger TFL said...

Seth really would have made the trip complete, but what he was doing was more important. I’ll never forget the morning we left, Seth got me a Big Red Donut, Chocolate Milk Chug, and a note saying he was going to take care of Deena while I was gone. What a friend.

9:27 AM  
Blogger Marc said...

And thus BA and Cory found themselves at a hostel in the mountains of Switzerland playing Wish You Were Here on the gee-tar to a bunch of dirty hippies.

10:04 PM  
Blogger Sammy Pow said...

Sorry I hadn't seen this AWESOME blog, but I'd come close to giving up on it. In fact I changed your hyperlink to your myspace page. Nevertheless, I will not Warnock you. There's so much to say about the trip yet I don't even know where to start. It was good to learn that Discover Card sucks, and that stinky cheese is stinky, and that electrical fences really hurt when you run into them. Thanks for the memories...

8:36 AM  
Blogger TFL said...

Marc – not only did they play BA’s favorite band on guitar for a bunch of hippies (dirty would be a question of relativity), but they would also go on to skirting the worst Canyoneering tragedy in Swiss history.

BA – I could write about this trip all day long. But where would I even begin? A good place might be discuss the day you hit the electric fence and dropped faster than I knew gravity could pull. Instead, I will probably just write about the profound experiences like attending a musical festival in a church house in France (probably my #1 memory). By the way, thanks for reminding me of what a loser I was for taking the only credit card not accepted in Europe.

12:55 PM  
Blogger Sammy Pow said...

First, dirty-hippie is just an unneeded modifier, it's like saying slutty-Paris Hilton; however, it does evoke the needed imagery of how bad hippies suck. When it is not said it should be implied, and while there are varying amounts of dirtiness (was there a rain storm at the last Phish concert? If so they may be a little less dirty) they are all dirty.

Second, I wish you could've gone canyoning with us but you probably wouldn't have paid...what could have been.

1:27 PM  
Blogger TFL said...

You hit the nail on the head with the hippie comment. I wish I could have gone canyoning as well, but you’re right – there’s no way I would have paid to do that. Instead I would have gone to the local CD store and bought a $30 mini disk.

3:06 PM  
Blogger A Sound Salvation said...

sounds about on par with some of my european adventures. wish i could have been there.

5:54 PM  
Blogger Marc said...

What about the day your blog died?

9:27 PM  

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