Sad. Crushed really, like a car falling off of a cliff in a ball of fire. My soul hurts. Yesterday I learned that Anthony Bourdain committed suicide at the young age of 61. He left behind an 11 year old daughter who he apparently adored. About his daughter, he once reportedly said that he stopped accepting drinks from people, which he got offers for all the time, for fear that if he accepted them all he wouldn’t live past his daughters eye-rolling years. Maybe this one observation epitomized him for me – he was like that all the time it seemed – uncommonly good at using word-wit to deal with life.
Who was he to me? To me, Anthony acted out on things for which I always seem to crave – experiencing the world first hand through people and places. I watched his television shows for years, especially the No Reservations series on the Travel Channel.. That he used food as a vehicle for his explorations was beside the point, but he could always be seen lifting a drink over food to some new friends at some far and away place in some back alley food stand. And that was his schtick, and it worked. It worked really well.
He was also a very engaging story teller. He had an ability to draw you into the places he visited and give you a sense of what life was really like. I wish I could write as well he did.