You Don’t Take The A-Train To Mecca

I never met Anthony Bourdain. But somehow, I felt deeply connected to him. His honesty. His take on the world. His ability to experience life through connections with people sitting across from him sharing a meal. Like the bartender who remembers your drink and has it ready for you before you sit down, he just got it.

The ache in my soul.

The need to connect.

The hunger for something that sits in your throat but you can’t seem to put it into words.

He wasn’t after the travel you find on a postcard to send back home. His life wasn’t perfectly curated. He chased ghosts through war torn countries. Fed hungry crowds in Port-au-Prince. Sat on plastic stools to slurp down countless bowls of noodles across Asia. Shared a family meal with Palestinians in Gaza. He dug deep into the marrow of life with a fork in one hand and a pen in the other. He crafted beauty from the bruises.

Bourdain was fully himself, and that’s what made him magnetic. Equal parts poet and barroom philosopher. A man who carried his demons like carry-on luggage, never pretending they weren’t there.

He didn’t just tell stories, they bled into his writing. They shaped his spirit. He walked through culture like a guest who knew the house was on fire, but stayed for dinner anyway. There was no savior complex. No cinematic soundtrack. Just him. A camera. A knife. And plenty of questions.

His gift wasn’t a show about food or travel. It was the holy ritual of sitting the hell down with another person and being completely present. With anyone. Even if they didn’t look like him, think like him or believe like him. And he would make them feel welcomed by saying, “Tell me who you are.”

Not to change them.

Not to fix them.

But to connect with the truth they’ve lived through.

Over the years I watched him talk to butchers like they were philosophers. Saw him eat bún chả with Obama like it was sacred. Because to him it was a holy communion. He walked through Vietnam like it was a lost dream he once had and forgot. But being back there felt like home, so he drank the snake bile mixed with wine, tasting the bitter, sour, evil remnants. A subtle reminder of how this life can be.

At heart, he was punk rock with a passport. A veritable middle finger with a doctorate in empathy. His legacy isn’t tidy. It’s raw. Like a good ceviche. Acidic. Cold. Delicious. And maybe a little violent heat hitting at end that warms you up a bit.

All those hours of watching him helped me learn the art of curious conversation. In making something from the ether of nothing. And doing it with my own style. Even if that style was full of transparency, satire and cheeky sarcasm.

I think about this quote often:
“The journey is part of the experience, an expression of the seriousness of one’s intent. One doesn’t simply take the A train to Mecca.”

Thank you Anthony for teaching me to walk. Even if it’s barefoot along the rocky trails. Even if the road is ugly. Even if no one claps when you get where you’re going.

While taking the shortcut might get me there a little cleaner, I’ll have nothing to write about.

Because I must not forget, the walk changes you and that’s the entire damn point.