Popcorn, Politics, And Parts Unknown: How My Dad Taught Me To See The World Via Anthony Bourdain

My First “Passport” To The World

I grew up in a house where popcorn was more than popcorn — it was a ritual. My dad and I would sit in the living room, not just watching TV, but devouring the world through it every Sunday night watching Parts Unknown, which starred Anthony Bourdain.

My dad did not just love travel — he loved people. Their stories. Their struggles. Their dignity.

Long before Bourdain, he was slipping me “forbidden” ideas behind my mom’s back — conversations about justice, inequality, compassion, and why the world works the way it does. We watched The West Wing. We debated Homeland. We talked about war, peace, borders, and humanity on our dinner dates when it was just the two of us.

By the time Bourdain came into our lives, he did not introduce new ideas. He gave a passport to the ones my dad had already planted in me.

This was our classroom — less formal, more messy, more real. We were not just passing time; we were learning how to see.

This was back when I still lived at home, years before my passport filled up with stamps of my own. Long before I understood that those nights were not just entertainment — they were an education. A philosophy. A quiet inheritance.

How My Dad Taught Me Curiosity Was A Form Of Love

My dad did not just teach me facts about the world — he taught me how to care about the people in it.

Some dads hand down watches or tools. Mine handed down a lens: one that leaned toward compassion, open-mindedness, humor, and a real hunger for stories that were not his own.

To him, every place had a pulse, every person had a truth worth hearing, and every dish had a memory stitched inside it. 

Roots And Identity

Whenever Bourdain went to Italy, my dad would sit a little taller. That was his motherland. His flavors. His people.

Years later, we would walk those cobblestone streets together — not as tourists, but as descendants returning. And every meal felt like a continuation of those Sunday nights on the couch.

Some Memories Arrive Exactly When We Are Ready For Them

But it was India that made my dad’s eyes shine in a way I will never forget.

He had been there once on business, long before I was old enough to understand what a life-changing journey meant. He had a photo of himself at the Taj Mahal — a picture I grew up staring at like it was proof that another version of the world existed. Softer. Wider. More spiritual.

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“Travel is not always pretty. It is not always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that is okay. The journey changes you; it should change you.” Anthony Bourdain

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Whenever Bourdain went to India, my dad did not just watch. He remembered. He narrated. He took me back with him through stories of color, chaos, kindness, and perspective.

For years, I desperetly wanted to stand in that same spot. To understand what had changed him.

And one day, I did.

I have been fervently searching for the photo of my dad at the Taj Mahal. I know it exists. I remember it clearly — his quiet smile, the weight of history behind him, the awe he carried so gently.

I have not found it yet after hours and hours of searching for it.

But I believe some things do not surface until the exact moment we need them most. And I trust that one day — on a day I do not yet know — I will find that photo and it will feel like a message, not a coincidence.

When I do, I will update this post. Because that is how memories work. They keep meeting us where we are.

Politics And Humanity

What we loved most about Bourdain was not the food. It was the way he refused to separate people from politics, culture from history, or travel from truth.

He talked about war. Colonialism. Poverty. Migration. He listened more than he spoke. He ate with everyone. That mattered to us. Because that is how my dad raised me — to believe that the purpose of a life well lived is to reduce suffering and expand compassion.

For a Birthday one year, I surprised my father with tickets to see Bourdain speak in our city. I spent a little extra money for a personal meet and greet. My Dad being my Dad, said that I needed to meet my hero more than him and gave me his pass. If you have been reading my posts about my dad, you would know his generosity is his legacy.

Bourdain chose to have an extraordinary conversation with me that actually changed the direction of my life, however I am going to keep those words private. Only me, my dad, and Anthony know what was said in that moment.

Joaquín — The Legacy Lives On

This is the generational payoff.

I tried to shield my son from politics when he was little. The world felt loud, cruel, and unfair — especially toward Latino families like ours.

But kids find their own way. And somehow, without being coached, he grew into the same kind of human my dad was. Curious. Justice-minded. Empathetic. Brave enough to care.

I joke that I am breaking the patriarchy by raising a son like this. But the truth is, I am continuing something my father started.

And I know he would be beyond proud.

Why I Am Standing Still For Now

Since writing this, my dad passed away. Right now, travel feels heavier than it once did. I have stepped back — to grieve, to breathe, to prioritize stillness.

I wrote more about that in Why I Am Taking a Travel Break — a post about how loss can stop us long enough to remind us what really matters.

Yet even in that pause, I see the lessons he gave me unfolding around me: curiosity toward others, tenderness for stories, bravery in unusual places.

But I also know this: my love for the world did not disappear with him. It came from him. From late nights watching Parts Unknown, from conversations about politics and people, from learning that curiosity is a form of compassion.

The Journey Is Not Over — It Is Just Waiting

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“If I am an advocate for anything, it is to move. As far as you can. As much as you can.” Anthony Bourdain

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One day, I will travel again. And when I do, I will carry both Anthony Bourdain’s fearless curiosity and my father’s quiet reverence for the world with me — everywhere I go. Because the world my father taught me to love is still out there, and when I am ready, I know it will welcome me back, just as gently as he always did.

And now, when the world feels heavy, when grief blurs my sense of direction, I don’t reach for a plane ticket. I reach for a reminder.

I look at Anthony’s autograph — the one he inscribed just for me — and I remember who I once was.

Curious. Brave. Open.

A daughter sitting beside her father on a couch, believing the world was worth understanding.

That version of me is not gone.

She is just waiting…