I wasn't a huge fan of Anthony Bourdain's initially. My parents watched Parts Unknown religiously on CNN, and I checked a few things out on Netflix when I moved back here in 2014, but I think I had trouble binge-watching them - though I really loved some of the episodes he did in Asia, particularly Thailand and Japan.
But that changed when he died. Just as I was shocked by the suddenness of it, I was also shocked by the outpouring of grief, from friends, family and other entertainers. That whole long weekend, which began with me arriving at San Jose Airport only to learn that Bourdain had killed himself, I read and listened to people talk about him and try to make sense of his death.
The feeling of things gone mad wasn't helped by the fact that the summit with North Korea, as brokered by Dennis Rodman, also occurred that weekend.
Naturally, then, I went back to rewatch the eight seasons of Parts Unknown that were on Netflix. I've been watching them since then, with added urgency now that they're set to disappear on 1 October, and I think I've reappraised why people like Bourdain's shows. I won't go over the stuff that other people have said, like how he used food to get to know places and people, or how he shined a much-needed spotlight on places that Americans know nothing about (both inside and outside the US).
But I'm struck by the breadth of people he spoke to during these shows. It's strangely satisfying to see one of my favorite authors, Paul Theroux, pop up in the episode on Hawaii, for example - for most viewers, I'm sure that Theroux was just some dude that Bourdain talked to briefly, but because I've been reading his books for fifteen years I know why Theroux's there to tell Bourdain about what Hawaii represents, because I know how he himself ended up living there. At least, insofar as anyone who read The Happy Isles of Oceania can know that.
What I've also found myself enjoying is that even if I'm uninterested in a place before watching an episode, I watch it anyway because by now I trust Bourdain enough to know that he'll pull something interesting out of it.
Mostly, though, what I keep coming back to in almost every episode is his death. In a lot of episodes he talks offhandedly about death or suicide, like he's joking. In others he talks about the future, about where he'll be in five years or ten years or twenty, or about being a father to his daughter. And I can never hold back from yelling at the TV that he's broken those promises, that he won't be there to see how a troubled situation develops, or to see how his daughter grows up.
Abstractly, as well, I wince a little whenever I see friends of his who popped up. There's Eric Ripert, obviously, who found Bourdain's body and so becomes difficult to watch in the few episodes where he and his friend are clowning around, like in Sichuan (which I watched just today). But I also think of Dinh Hoang Linh, Bourdain's friend in Vietnam going back to 2001 or so - in both of the Vietnam episodes I've seen, they talk about the length of that friendship and I feel bad for Dinh, imagining how he must have heard the news of Bourdain's death.
Another common thread of the reports on his suicide was how difficult the life must have been. Bourdain was on the road a lot, spending his time in hotels and airports and train stations, or on location, and far from his family and friends. And even having friends was difficult, the articles said - he'd blow into your life for a few days, create some intense experiences somewhere, and then vanish, not to be seen again until the next time. Until there wouldn't be a next time.
That's why I find it difficult to laud the lifestyle he led. Traveling to places, eating delicious food in unfamiliar surroundings, spending the days solving the tasks of getting around and finding stuff to do, are all things I love, but I've realized in the past couple of years that I don't think I could cope with doing that all the time. Sad as I was to leave Tokyo last October, I know that at some point I'd have felt the need to get back home to my bed, my friends and my routine.
I thought about that strain a lot, in the context of other travelers I admire, from Paul Theroux to Rick Steves, and I note that each of them has had divorces and other unpleasantnesses, possibly or explicitly related to all their traveling. Theroux himself admits that during the writing of The Great Railway Bazaar, his first travel book and the one that effectively launched his career, he was miserable at being away from home and his kids - and that his marriage hit a terrible patch as a result.
Speculating on someone's suicide strikes me as tacky and gross, so I won't do so. But in the end I do keep coming back to the question of why, and what he was thinking as he prepared to do it. I think of all the lives he encountered shooting his show, and I wonder how they must have taken the news, from chefs and artists he dined with to the Filipino family who welcomed him for Christmas dinner in his Manila episode. Knowing Bourdain's fate made that sequence heartbreaking for me to watch, as he reads his hostess a letter from his former colleague, who was raised by her, and as she sings a rendition of Edelweiss that leaves him speechless.
Those moments are what, for me, make his end so sad. If they hadn't been captured on camera and shared with millions, they'd be gone irrevocably, just like all the moments and memories that disappear whenever anyone dies. I feel privileged to watch those moments where he connects with people he'd never otherwise encounter, and sorry that these moments of connection weren't enough to save him.
How to get help: In the US, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. The International Association for Suicide Prevention and Befrienders Worldwide also can provide contact information for crisis centers around the world.
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