I am still processing the news I heard last night. Anthony Bourdain died by suicide.
Suicide.
I still can’t accept the reality. This is Anthony—the badass chef I’ve had a crush on since college. The person we all thought had the best job in the world. The guy we saw as strong, brave, and seemingly untouched by sadness or depression.
Anthony, the no-BS traveler who would tell you to your face if something was wrong. He was the voice of the underdogs—the guy who opened my eyes to the world of travel. He showed me that you shouldn’t be too scared to go out, search, and experience the unknown.
Anthony, the guy who taught me so much, like:
Be open-minded about other people’s food and culture. Study history. Have an opinion on the current political climate. Ask questions—ask questions even if it’s forbidden. Curse. Say "fuck you" when you need to. Fight for what you think is right. Be the voice of reason. Eat. Experience food emotionally, like a child. Taste food and make it an earth-shattering experience. Meet people. Make an impact.
Anthony, you had your reasons, and I will respect them, even though I may never understand. If you could only see people’s reactions to your passing... you touched so many of our lives. Maybe your job here was done. You got tired. You deserve rest.
Anthony, I can picture you raising your middle finger as you enter the other side. This time, I think there are no Parts Unknown anymore.
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