Me and my Ramen, we were such good friends. We travelled together from Buenos Aires in Argentina all the way up to Santa Marta in Colombia. We spent six intensive months together. Something that let you become real friends. I know everything about my Ramen and my Ramen knows everything about me.
I remember our first meeting pretty well.
I got it from a friend, who left Buenos Aires shortly before I did it as well. She gave me her leftovers and I promised to finish it. Apart from the Ramen I ate everything during my last week in Buenos Aires. The only thing I stored in my backpack was the Ramen with chicken taste. For bad times, as I thought.
And here we are now. Six months later at the Caribbean coast in Colombia. There was no special reason, why I actually killed it today. I just wanted to get rid off food, which I’m carrying around since quite a while. And so I ate my best and longest travel buddy. I’m an asshole. But we both knew it’s going to happen one day.
The taste was as good as a Ramen can taste. But I still couldn’t really enjoy it. It felt like eating my pet. Somehow strange. Even though my backpack is a bit lighter now, I’m going to miss this little package of noodles a lot. Rest in peace, Mister Ramen!