They call it “God’s Waiting Room”
Last week, I found myself in my parents’ new digs in sunny South Florida, and guess what? They took me straight to the clubhouse—a staple in the gated communities designed for the 55-and-older crowd. My dad proudly introduced me to his gang of buddies, who I promptly nicknamed “The Poolside Posse.”
First up was Arnold, a man in his seventies who was so tanned he seemed like he’d just stepped off the set of a cliché film about Jewish snowbirds. He wore a gold “chai” pendant that dangled precariously above his belly, which resembled a bowling ball. I half-expected him to break into an impromptu monologue about Brooklyn bagels, a staple in this area where “Brooklyn Water Bagel” is practically the local hangout.
Greetings from the Lanai!
My parents now live right on a golf course. In my vintage INXS t-shirt, I spent my mornings in their “Florida Room,” typing away on my laptop while sending messages to friends with the new catchphrase, “Greetings from the Lanai!” Meanwhile, geckos scurried by and golfers swung clubs, creating a picturesque scene. (Floridians have quite a few names for their screened porches, but “lanai” sounds the most tropical.)
On my second day in Boca, we lunched at a local deli boasting a menu full of lox and nova. It was a wake-up call. More than half the diners were accompanied by aides, some shuffling about with walkers while others nibbled on whitefish sandwiches. The atmosphere felt eerily reminiscent of a hospital waiting room, with the distinct aroma of illness mingling with sour pickles.
I couldn’t shake the thought of my vibrant mother, who still does Zumba five times a week, potentially spending the next decade here, scoping out the $5.99 lunch special before 1 p.m. I found myself tearing up behind my sunglasses, not wanting her to see my fear.
I never thought they’d settle here.
Here’s the kicker: I always pictured my parents as the free-spirited types—former hippies who were the coolest parents in the neighborhood. My dad even owned Long Island’s first head shop, “The Magic Cottage.” Growing up, our basement housed a six-foot bamboo bong, and my dad’s nightstand was filled with rolling papers. When I first dabbled in weed at a party in ’87, I panicked and called my mom, convinced I was going to die. Instead of lecturing me, she made tea and sat with me while my dad peeked in, chuckling at my melodrama.
Off to Boca, where all the Jews go to retire.
Two years back, my dad had a major heart attack, followed by a quintuple bypass. Afterward, he expressed a strong desire—no, a need—to retire. This meant leaving Long Island, notorious for its sky-high property taxes. And so, my parents packed their bags for Boca, where it’s often said that all the Jews go to retire.
If Florida is “God’s Waiting Room” due to its high number of retirees, the Boca/Delray/Boynton Beach area has a particularly dense population of Jewish residents. In a way, this felt like coming home for my parents. Their neighborhood could easily pass for Long Island without the snow.
I’m genuinely happy to see my dad relaxed, free from the stress of his work routine. My mom enjoys her evening wine and power walks at nearby nature preserves, and they can pop over to the beach whenever they fancy.
Yet, a sense of unease lingers in me, knowing this is the final chapter. This is where I’ll need to fly down for emergencies instead of just hopping on a train from NYC.
But my parents are content, and they face life without fear. It’s me who needs to adjust to the reality of them in this phase of life. After a week in Boca, I realize that this phase will be filled with sunshine. I have to admit it—life on the lanai isn’t so bad.