They refer to it as “God’s Waiting Room.”
As soon as I arrived at my parents’ new home in sunny South Florida last week, they whisked me off to the clubhouse—a staple of the gated communities designed for folks aged 55 and up. My dad introduced me to his group of male buddies, and I immediately dubbed them “The Golf Crew.”
First up was Max, a hilariously sun-kissed guy in his seventies, sporting a gold “chai” necklace that dangled precariously above his round belly. At first glance, he seemed like a character straight out of a movie about Jewish snowbirds. The local deli proudly boasts “Brooklyn Bagels” on its sign—I wasn’t surprised.
Greetings from the Lanai!
My parents have literally set up shop on a golf course. In my old rock band t-shirt, I found myself spending mornings in their “Florida Room,” catching up with friends online and typing “Greetings from the Lanai!” as geckos scurried by and golfers teed off in the background. (Floridians have plenty of names for their screened porches; “lanai” is just one of them.)
On my second day, we lunched at a local deli famous for its lox and nova. That’s when the mood shifted. Over half the patrons were accompanied by aides, some struggling with walkers while others nibbled on whitefish sandwiches with gnarled hands. It felt eerily reminiscent of a hospital waiting room, with an unsettling blend of illness and the scent of sour pickles in the air.
I couldn’t help but picture my eternally youthful mom, who dances Zumba five times a week, coming to this very spot for the next few decades, making sure to snag the $5.99 lunch special before 1 p.m. I fought back tears behind my sunglasses, not wanting her to see my panic.
I Never Thought They’d End Up Here
Honestly, I never imagined my parents would retire to a place like this. They were once the coolest parents around, former hippies who shaped my friends’ perceptions of what a family could be. My dad opened Long Island’s first head shop, where I grew up with a six-foot bamboo bong in the basement and rolling papers in his nightstand. The first time I tried weed at a party, I panicked and called my mom, convinced I was going to die that night. Instead of scolding me, she made tea and sat with me, while my dad peeked in, barely containing his laughter.
Two years ago, my dad had a serious heart attack and underwent a quintuple bypass. It was during his recovery that he decided it was time to retire, which meant leaving behind the high property taxes of Long Island. So, off they went to Boca, a place often joked about as the final destination for Jewish retirees.
If Florida is “God’s Waiting Room” due to its high retiree population, the Boca/Delray/Boynton Beach area is known for its dense Jewish community. For my parents, it almost felt like coming home; it was a bit like Long Island without the snow.
While I’m happy my dad is now relaxed and no longer stressed by work, I can’t shake the unease that this is the last chapter. Instead of hopping a train, I’ll have to book flights from New York City for emergencies. Yet they seem content and unfazed—it’s me who needs to adjust to their new reality. After a week in Boca, I have to admit, life on the lanai isn’t too shabby.
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In summary, visiting your retired parents in a place like Boca Raton can be a bittersweet experience. While the sunshine and leisure lifestyle can be appealing, it also brings to light the realities of aging and health concerns. Adjusting to this new stage in their lives requires a shift in perspective, but ultimately, the happiness of loved ones is what matters most.