B-B-Bourdainism: Bloopers and B-Sides from a Solo Traveler

Let’s keep it real for a moment. With the world actively on fire, I think we’re allowed—no, obligated—to laugh. Preferably at me.

Something deeply unwell happens to me in every country I visit. This is not a coincidence. This is a pattern. And on the first two legs of my World Tour, I truly outdid myself.

Leg 1: Mexico 🇲🇽

I pooped my pants in Mexico.

I’m one of those Asians. I need Asian food at least once a week or my body files a formal complaint. So I found a hole-in-the-wall Chinese spot and thought, Surely I will be fine. I am a seasoned traveler. I have seen things.

The next day, I’m leisurely strolling through the city center, high on confidence and poor decisions, when I pass a perfume shop. The salesgirl is wearing BTS merch. I light up. I tell her I’m Korean. Instant kinship.

We’re mid-conversation, and I give her what I now realize was an impossible brief:

“Woody, smoky, a touch of tobacco—but still feminine.”

She nods solemnly. A professional.

Then my stomach speaks.

Not a “you have an hour” situation. Not even a “find a café” situation. This was P0. Code Red. Systems failing. No warning banner.

She’s mixing three bottles like an alchemist while my face goes from charming to haunted. I try to rush her, but she’s in her zone. Her coworkers gather. A symposium forms.

That’s when it happens.

As disaster runs down my leg, I panic and shout:

“I’LL TAKE THEM ALL.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Absolutely convinced.”

I wrap my sweatshirt around my waist and decide that a 16-minute walk of shame back to my hotel is still morally superior to sitting in an Uber and ruining a man’s livelihood.

And here’s the actual text to my poor boss:

(I wasn’t late!)

What a start.

Panama 🇵🇦

Some of you are thinking: She really thinks she’s magical.

Listen. I had a bad feeling the moment I got into the Uber. The driver was visibly stressed, and honestly—driving in Panama is not for the weak.

A few blocks in, an elderly woman in a Mercedes T-bones us.

I don’t have much to laugh about here because it was genuinely scary—except for the part where the replacement driver shows up, and I tip the first guy extra and say:

“I think he needs it more than you, mate.”

The new driver just shrugs and goes:

“Pfft. That’s every day here. Happened to me last week. Nobody tip me.”

Panama stays undefeated.

Greece 🇬🇷

Getting my hair braided in Athens was mostly wholesome—until it became a masterclass in why women run the world.

A husband-and-wife duo ran the stand. Only the husband was there when I arrived. I don’t think he was expecting customers. Definitely not someone with hair as long as mine.

He panics. He calls his wife.

She arrives like a Marvel entrance—on a motorcycle—takes one look at his work, undoes everything, and finishes my hair in record time.

Women are magic. Never forget this.

As a charming woman I met in Panama once said to me:

“Men are just decorations from God.”

These braids are here to stay.

Vienna 🇦🇹

I went to a café to do creative work before my corporate meetings kicked in, and I could not understand why it felt like everyone there hated me.

I tip. I say hello. I’m not feral. What was the problem?

By day two or three, I finally ask the waitress:

“Is… something I’m doing wrong?”

She leans in close and whispers, like she’s telling me a state secret:

“You’re ordering bottled water.”

Apparently Vienna prides itself on having the best tap water on Earth. I forgot. I also like bubbles. I am sorry for my sins.

Please forgive me, Austria.

Budapest / Slovakia 🇭🇺🇸🇰

My tour guide was a solid 6’4”, 230 pounds, and as stoic as an Eastern European philosophy textbook.

He picked me up first. I tried to make him laugh. Nothing. Then we picked up an American family. I turned to him and said:

“Well, you’re stuck with me, so you might as well get used to it.”

He took the tour extremely seriously. The family eventually branched off.

Then he looks at me and says:

“I like your tattoos. I have, too.”

He pulls up his sleeve. Zips down his sweater.

Covered. Like Yakuza-covered.

Turns out he used to own a tattoo shop. As I ask polite follow-up questions, he casually pulls out his phone. One of his open tabs is for purchasing a handgun.

I pretend not to see it. Growth.

He used to do a lot of things.

I eventually tell him I’m overstimulated and need food and a beer. He immediately offers to be my personal tour guide—hooks me up with his people, gives stellar recommendations. A gentleman.

I wander into a punk bar in Slovakia and text him:

“Come join!”

Turns out he had been standing close enough the entire time to keep me in his line of sight.

Good lad.

Rome 🇮🇹

I lost my wallet at the Roman airport and remained shockingly calm.

The airport lady was even calmer.

She said:

“Hey—you’re too beautiful to be worried. We will find it.”

She made a few phone calls. And somehow—miraculously—they did. They delivered it to a very defeated Romantic sitting on her enormous luggage.

Women rock. Again.

Paris 🇫🇷

I did not like Paris.

Happy New Year’s, friends.