An Ode to Anthony

**If you take a look at my last blog post, I referenced Bourdain heavily. I felt a follow up to be necessary, if not for anyone who might read this - for me.** 


For a few moments, I was completely present. While driving down the Atlantic City Expressway Friday afternoon, I rested my forearm against the open window and cupped my hand to redirect the rushing air into the car and onto my face.

I thought about how that air felt - warm and thick, like something I could hold in my fist - and I thought about Anthony Bourdain. He knows how the air here feels, he grew up in New Jersey too. I asked, nearly out loud, “You really didn’t want to feel this again?”

In one of the last interviews that Bourdain gave before apparently taking his own life, he spoke with NorthJersey.com about the culture of cuisine that he grew up with;

“The greatness of Jersey, to me, is the indigenous New Jersey food, the tomatoes, the corn in summer, the steamer clams, the fried blowfish tails that I used to have as a kid down on the shore, salt water taffy on the boardwalk.”

There is so much greatness here and so much greatness to be found on this enormous earth, much of which Bourdain has tasted, conversed with, kneaded, cultivated and shared with us drooling onlookers.

I was still thinking about him when I pulled my sunglasses up and realized that the road was much brighter than what I had been experiencing. Is that what sadness is? Is it a filter that falls over a persons window to the world, casting a dark cloud onto what may be otherwise bright? That’s what it feels like. Was the conclusion to Bourdain’s life the result of too many days with the inability to take the dark shades off? That, I don’t know.

Something I do know a little bit about is travel; the glory and the strain of it. Aside from personal journeys, for four months of my life I traveled around the globe by ship, spending time in countries along the way. I’ve eaten Zebra (I’ve long since stopped eating meat and wouldn’t dabble in this again), drank Namibian beer infused with formaldehyde (another, never again), ate Kobe beef in Kobe, Japan and savored the olives straight off the branch in Italy. The man I currently think of, has been to the many of the same strange places that I have, though he always seemed to paint them with more color than I was ever able to. 

Here’s something else Bourdain said;

"As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life — and travel — leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks — on your body or on your heart — are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.” - Parts Unknown. 

We all have marks. For me, it has been a battle with unnecessary guilt. Guilt has never been quite the right word for it but the closest term I’ve been able to find.

These days this emotion applies more so to local travel than international. Nearly every evening I see people, in neighborhoods very different from my own, on what will likely be the worst day of their lives. I struggle with the pressure of doing proper justice to a story or a person who’s entire existence and perhaps last moments will be boiled down to 1:30 seconds. Sometimes, the feeling spawns from simple things. I will see a manager at a grocery store and suddenly become overwhelmed with that strange feeling of  “guilt”. It’s a longing to make sure that that this random person is happy and loved. Its a desperation that comes from feeling that in some way I might be able to control this. Then I feel “guilty” for looking at them and questioning any of this. At lower points, I have wondered if my life has been too privileged and if maybe, I owe it to the world to suffer. Perhaps, I deserve it.

That’s how illogical it can get. Again, everyone has marks.

Professionally, when I have felt overwhelmed by a large story or dried creatively, I’ve thought of Bourdain. Actually, I have played his stories on my phone just to wait to be inspired by his unorthodox approach to telling stranger's stories. This has always done the trick.

I am not going to lament on his storytelling genius (although he once spoke about a meal in Thailand and his edit crew utilized flash frames of still images which included erotic dancers to emphasize the sensuality of the flavors - brilliance) or try and explain his raw and captivating essence better than the last person. Those who understand “it” already get all of this.

I am disappointed by the ending to his own story because there is nothing truly unique about it. This is a selfish thought, guilt inducing even, but quite honestly for the rough, unapologetic and deeply contemplative life that he has lead, this feels to me almost status quo. For a viewer, this would be like a Parts Unknown/No Reservations ending with a shot with a car driving away. Its what I expect of someone like him, not him. 

There's Kerouac, Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, James Joyce, Dorothy Parker, William Faulkner. Anthony, this story has been written a hundred times over. Personally and again, selfishly I expected something more out of the box than finally and fully submitting to a narrative of self destruction.  

But - maybe the writers who I have loved have met this demise not by coincidence. Of course its not by coincidence. Maybe the issue here is one of chronic consciousness, that despite meeting and sharing the stories of other peoples pain, the idea that other people "have it harder" does not make one's life easier to live. Maybe the burden of having so "much" in comparison becomes too heavy. 

Again, while I may understand that feeling and have coped in mostly healthy ways, this may not be the case for all. We only really have our own axis of perspective where we can attempt to rationalize the actions of others. 

I finish this post with the same way I began the last, with my computer out, Parts Unknown on in the background and Nathan watching it beside me. I write because Anthony Bourdain has long inspired me to do so. Raw and ragged with less emphasis on grammatical restrictions and more on lyrical impact. 

Anthony Bourdain has left us with mementos, like pictures you give loved ones after returning from a trip. What remains is a lesson in advocacy against sexual harassment and a visual and verbal history of his journey. This is invaluable for the fact that his journey included so many sudden glimpses into the cores of people we would never meet.

I wont stop pressing play when I feel stifled. I wont stop thinking of Anthony Bourdain when I write.