Ah, f*ck. My friend travels like Anthony Bourdain.

I was just settling into 35E and getting ready to sling back a gin & tonic and watch Tenet on an 8-inch screen like Christopher Nolan intended. Then the asshole in the aisle seat, also known as my friend, leaned over and told me he downloaded a few episodes of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations and Parts Unknown so we could prepare for the trip.

Fuck, seriously? We’ve been best friends for 20 years and I didn’t know this guy was a disciple of Bourdain. I thought this trip was going to be nice cocktail bars and rooftop pools. But after five hours watching Bourdain on the flight, I was wondering if it was too late to abort the mission.

Now instead of overpriced specialty cocktails, I’ll be at some scuzzy dive bar elbow to elbow next to someone with neck tattoos wearing a hi-vis jacket drinking a shot and a beer. I bet he’ll try to banter with the bartender for the plot.

I guess I should start preparing for explosive diarrhea at 4 am after eating mystery meat in a back alley. I can’t wait to hear about the true meaning of street food while my stomach prepares to ruin my night. Did I pack extra Tums?

I tried to tell him this guy had a production crew and a local fixer, but he kept insisting it was all organic content, bro. Does he really think we’re going to find the one English-speaking Michelin-starred chef running a nondescript sandwich shop that’s still somehow undiscovered? Yes, yes he does.

He’s going to ask some poor taxi driver to take us to his favorite seafood restaurant, which of course will be mediocre because what the fuck does he know? It’s not like he’s about to drive us to his nonna’s house for a convivial supper and down home cooking. But I do know the guy selling suspicious oysters on the beach in 100 degree weather will love to see us coming.

I could be eating Eggs Benedict at a nice restaurant but now this guy is going to make us walk an hour to some sweaty market to find “meat in tube form.” It’ll be fine though because I can contemplate how authentic the place is while I sit on a plastic chair and chew on some spleen for 20 minutes. I bet he thinks eating blood sausage is a fun idea, too.

I know all I’m going to hear about for the next week is how we’re “eating like the locals.“ Should I tell him all the locals are eating at home because our Airbnb priced them out of the apartment above the “hidden gem” he just “discovered,” so now they have to commute two hours to serve our asses? Maybe I’ll tell him after the Airbnb Experience we booked to tour the street art of the area.

Hey, maybe he’ll take us someplace where they use fucking tweezers to plate the food, at least then I probably won’t be praying to the porcelain god later that night.

Clearly this is satire. Anthony Bourdain means a lot to me. I’ve read his books (yes, even the crime fiction ones) and his shows always comfort me when I’m down and out. So this is not Bourdain slander in the slightest. If anything I’m making fun of myself here. I am the friend in this situation, and most of these examples are based on true events. Just ask my friends and girlfriend’s family.

-Skylar