When I think of Andy, I think of goofiness. I know, he spent his time in war zones, embedded with Nigerian rebel groups, or elsewhere, but that’s not what we talked about. We talked about our love of big sandwiches over hamburgers. I’d look forward to seeing him at BBQs or where ever — if he was in the country, he’d be there — and we’d catch up and laugh about nothing over a drink. How after a hike, he’d be the first person to strip off his clothes and and go skinnydipping in a pond. Or the time I went to a NY marathon party at his S. Williamsburg apartment and saw that he used the same Aveda shampoo and conditioner I did, and what a great day of teasing that was. Andy was somehow both awkward and charming, and had huge mouth for a huge smile. And of course I remember the call I got the day he was arrested in Nigeria – I work at Human Rights Watch, and I quickly hunted down a friend in our Africa division and she told me “everyone is on his case already,” that I could rest easy (I didn’t) because good people were on it. And how when he was released, he worked so hard to help his fixer, who was also arrested but didn’t have a US passport to extricate himself with. There was a time when I grew sick of all the Kickstarter campaigns I was asked to fund, but I always donated to Andy’s. You knew something good would come of it. I knew Andy had struggles with depression, and I was so very, very sorry to hear that we lost him. The world will miss him.