Chicago winter, avoiding our balcony windows as the frigid air leeches one’s spirit upon approach. Snow piles press against the glass, icicles droop from the roof, and a 5pm darkness screams out that winter is not coming, but has indeed arrived. “I’m hungry.” She speaks as if I’m in the living room with her. “Me too.” I murmur. My gaze scrutinizes the hollow cavern as the sickly, fridge bulb stupefies my senses. The TV shouts, whispers, calms, accosts, thunders, cries, and chuckles as Jess surfs the channels. My ears perk up as a familiar tune rings out, breaking my refrigerator trance. “Nooo Reservationssss…” the war cry for foodies, travel addicts, and tundra trapped audiences. The fridge handle slips from my hand as I walk over to Jess, plopping down next to her like a house cat. “Where is he this time?” “Mex-i-Co City.” Anthony Bourdain’s iconic voice welcomes us to Mexico’s capital like a flight attendant announcing our arrival. My finger taps the pause button on the remote, “I have an idea.” I look to her, realizing we are almost too close and she is so tolerant. “I’ll throw on some arctic trekking gear and run to CVS, you order grub from Buena Vista.” She doesn’t miss a beat, when it came to Mexican food, Jess and I shared the same soul, “Shrimp fajitas, chicken fajitas, chips n guac, salsa. Spicy.” A sole arching eyebrow and a half grin affirm. “You complete me. If I’m not back in twenty, tell the dogs I love them.” We high five.
I summit Mount CVS, tip the shit out of Juan the delivery man, and so begins the Great Mexican Feast of Tuesday, January 12th. A spread of Latin flavor encompasses our coffee table, sidelined by Coronas, two shots of tequila, and a mound of limes. Give us a break, the episode began with Bourdain and a few buddies getting shitfaced in this mom n pop restaurant with fare so eye popping my TV screen splintered. Forty three minutes later Jessica and I are salsa dancing, well our version of salsa dancing, as Hobo whines with anxiety and Belly grins with leftover anticipation. In an instant, Mr. Bourdain transported us from wintertime gloom and doom to an enlivened fiesta like some witty teleporter. Anthony allowed those of us incapable of traveling, of adventuring, of dining outside our norm, to do just that with him, making us feel like crew members watching from the sidelines. Jess and I had a helluva good time, the unexpected shenanigans kind of fun which in my opinion is thee best kind. One third of a tequila bottle later, the fireplace glow fights for existence, and we find ourselves knee deep in some mystical topic about life, about love. A meaningful conversation is the extension of one’s spirit embracing another’s. I read that line a few times over too. Tequila also made her rather handsy, so gracias por eso Anthony.
Many years later, finding myself along some solo adventure, making my way through San Salvador, Amsterdam, Tibet, or Kathmandu, I grin at how much I took away from that show. Ask the locals where they dine, avoid the tourist traps, although sometimes those too can be fun, try what you normally wouldn’t, drink when offered, always smile, be polite, and sprinkle in an adventure or seven. Most importantly, share these experiences with friends, old and new alike, get lost in conversation. EVERYONE’s dream job at one point was to host No Reservations, you didn’t even have to ask, it was their paradise. And it appeared to be an absolute dream, but dreams, at least for me, are somewhat confusing, surreal, and very mysterious. When my Beloved passed I decided I too would travel; I ate, I adventured, I helped where I could, and I did this with old and new friends alike. It was however not very dreamlike but closer to a nightmare.
Life is about perception, so no matter if I’m wine tasting in Christchurch, palace venturing in Jaipur, or motorcycling through the Andes, the perception of my experience is based on one thing, love. I don’t say this lightly, it took a very long time and unending effort for me to arrive at this conclusion. Are exotic sanctuaries, antiquitous villages, or futuristic urban expanses true paradises if my spirit is veiled in depression, overcome by grief? Depression has a way of negating one’s senses, muting interest, suffocating desire no matter the setting. Truth be told, so many of us are simply not pleased with our reality, so travel provides an escape. It makes sense right? Palm trees, mountain tops, sumptuous cuisine, unending horizons, cultural delights, and a shit ton of laughs… most importantly an escape from the routine. Sign me the eff up! But we all come home at some point, then what? Live for the next adventure, plan another escape? “Hey bosslady, I need ten days off in October… I’m headed to the motha-fuckin moon! Yeah that should do the trick.”
I tried to outrun, outsmart my depression like darkness evading light. I couldn’t escape because wherever I went, a question went with me. “Do you love yourself?” What a piece of shit question. So layered and nearly impossible to answer for so many. “Fuck you for asking.” Just answer. “Instinctual response, yes of course! Haha.” (nervous grin). Go beyond that, “Well… yeah sure, everyone does. I have a good job, nice place to live, money in the bank, great family. I think I do… I should, right?” (furrowed brow, inner reflection). A bit deeper still, “What does it even mean to love oneself? Like, I’m fond of myself, my life is good and all, but I wish… well I imagined it would all be different somehow.” Now be raw, totally vulnerable, “No. I guess not. Because I’m not happy. I feel like something is missing and I don’t know what. I have no idea actually. But no, I do not love myself, because if I’m not happy, then how the hell can I?” I’ve been there, not so long ago either. Because my self valuation was based on another’s love for me and my love for her, which I thought ended with her passing. Boy was I wrong. I was perceiving my reality for what I wanted it to be, not for what is was. Cue the depression.
So, does the answer to the question of loving oneself change within uncharted locations or exotic cultures? I don’t believe so. Travel in all its glory merely helps us outrun the question for a while. But eventually we get tired of running. “Busy, busy, busy! Things are great! I’m just so busy!” Yeah everyone’s busy but how’s your heart? Are you fulfilled, living in purpose? I have a question for you… do you love yourself? This is conversation, these are the questions we can ask one another here and now, wherever that finds you. Anthony Bourdain taught us all so much, his last lesson being that we need to talk to one another, open up and be vulnerable, and help one another discover self love. For when you have no reservations about loving yourself, truly and wholly, only then have you discovered paradise no matter the location.
Postscript.
I believe it very beneficial and important to share the suicide hotline phone number, but equally important is to check in with those you love, then expand out from there. I ask complete strangers if they want to talk when I sense a weight on their heart. Sometimes they open up, sometimes they don’t, but I try, and in doing so, succeed. Nearly everyone grieves something. Of course it can be difficult, uncomfortable, and awkward inquiring, but it’s much easier to open up to them first. So be courageous, share your grief with another… you may be surprised to learn of theirs in return. Then just listen. And if you find yourself unable to help someone, then you know there are resources available… but we need to have these conversations before it’s too late. This is where the path to loving oneself begins, with a question, which leads to a conversation, which can lead to paradise.
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