Remembering Andrew Hupert

I just learned that my dear friend, Andrew Hupert, passed away in October 2024 in Oaxaca, Mexico, where he had made his home in recent years. He was 61 years old.

The news has left me reflecting on a remarkable friendship—one that spanned more than two decades and crossed several continents.

I first met Andrew in Shanghai in 2003, and our connection was immediate. He possessed one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever encountered—profoundly insightful, incisively witty, and unflinchingly honest.

Not long after we met, Andrew and I went to a Starbucks in Shanghai together. When one of us spilled a drink while receiving it from the barista, Andrew used it as a teaching moment. He was, after all, a business school professor. He explained how even at a Starbucks, the cultural differences between China and the United States were evident. The barista asked if the person whose drink was spilled wanted to buy another one, whereas in the United States, a replacement would have been offered automatically. I knew right away that Andrew understood China in a way few Westerners did.

Over the years, I came to rely deeply on Andrew’s practical business wisdom, especially when it came to China. He had an uncanny ability to read the geopolitical winds, and more often than not, we saw the same storms brewing on the horizon.

Andrew and I traveled frequently, always making a point to meet whenever we found ourselves in the same city. I cherish so many vivid memories of our time together, but a few stand out as especially defining of our friendship.

In 2011, Andrew was developing a book on Chinese conflict management and sent me a draft for review. I dove into it, marking it up with extensive notes and suggestions—until about page ten, when it became clear that the manuscript needed more than just a helpful friend. I wrote to him, “Andrew, you know more about Chinese conflict management and negotiations than anyone I know, and this has the potential to be an absolutely terrific book. But neither you nor I are professional editors. This book deserves one.”

Silence followed for about a month. Then one day, he showed up grinning at an event where I was speaking at Columbia Business School. After my talk, we went out for lunch and spent the rest of the day hanging out. At one point, I asked for his honest feedback on my presentation. At first he held back—too nice to be too critical. “Be as critical as I was with your book,” I challenged him. And he delivered. His insights were spot-on—generous yet direct—and I’ve carried them with me ever since. That conversation made me a better speaker.

As the years progressed, Andrew’s strategic thinking about global business proved prescient. When I began writing about the need for companies to consider alternatives to China, Andrew was already several steps ahead—he had moved to Thailand and then to Vietnam. Then, when Mexico began emerging as a leading replacement for China manufacturing, Andrew moved again—first to Monterrey, then to his beloved Oaxaca.

I remember his visit to Seattle, where he insisted I play tour guide, determined to hit every sight. And during my family’s visit to Oaxaca, we shared a long lunch as he proudly showed us around his neighborhood. I asked why he had chosen Oaxaca, knowing most international business in Mexico revolved around cities like Mexico City, Monterrey, or Guadalajara. He conceded the point but declared his love for Oaxaca—its people, its tranquil pace, its rich culture, and its incredible food. He was so happy there that the logistical inconveniences simply didn’t faze him.

By pure chance, I ran into him at the Mexico City airport a few months later. We were both delighted by the coincidence and spent nearly two hours talking non-stop about the world—geopolitics, business, travel, and life. Then we each had to rush off to catch our flights. That was the last time I saw him in person.

In recent months, a growing unease settled in as his usually vibrant communication fell silent. My emails and texts went unanswered, and the calls that used to come regularly simply stopped. I kept wondering why, but I kept pushing the worst possibilities to the back of my mind.

Then, this morning, as I found myself wishing I could get Andrew’s take on the latest trade deal with Vietnam and his perspective on Chinese companies operating in Mexico, I felt compelled to search more thoroughly to find out what was going on. I eventually connected with his mother.

She broke the news: Andrew had died of a heart attack last October in Oaxaca. We talked for a long time about his keen intelligence, his adventurous spirit, his singular humor, and the joy he brought into so many lives. I told her how profoundly I admired and cared for her son. She, in turn, shared how much he had loved the life he had built for himself—and how much he had loved living in so many different parts of the world.

In writing this, I hope to inform others who knew Andrew of his passing—and to honor a truly extraordinary person. Writing tributes has become my way of processing loss, and of trying to hold on to what mattered most in my friendships.

Andrew was a loyal friend, a brilliant strategist, and an adventurer who charted his own distinctive course from New York to Shanghai, from Saigon to Oaxaca.

Andrew, thank you—for your friendship, your always spot-on guidance on China, Vietnam, Thailand, and Mexico, and most of all, your warmth and unforgettable sense of humor. I will miss you deeply, and I know I am far from alone in that sentiment.