Losing a parent is something that I am finding is taking me time to accept, mourn and grow from. This is why I have been absent from my blog writing for many months. I simply could not write about “ma vie en France” without talking about this significant event in my life.
Still, I continue to travel and find that I need to learn from my father’s sense of adventure and spontaneity. Something I truly never appreciated when he was alive. So posted here are photos of some recent trips I made to Belgium, Switzerland, Marseilles and Aix-en-Provence, sharing the historical richness of this old-world. I am doing my best to explore with my dad’s same vigor. It comes with the realization that living in the moment is your only guarantee, because life can change in an instant.
Below: Images of Ghent and Bruges
Bon Courage is what the French typically say to console one during difficult times. It is an expression that I heard often as I explained my father’s sudden passing in November of 2021. Our family had to scramble from our weekend holiday in Lyon to board a flight to Miami from Barcelona for the next day. I received that awful, too-early-morning phone call that everyone knows is never good. My sister-in-law had the unfortunate burden of explaining to me that my father died of a massive heart attack during the late evening back in Florida. I responded in disbelief and she repeated the words to me again, “Your father died.” At that moment, the awareness that I had lost a parent and my mother was now a widower was fleeting. It felt as if I couldn’t ground my existence on this earth with the receipt of this news. This feeling of disconnect would continue to churn inside of me for the weeks to come.
As I live in the south of France, and my extended family is primarily clustered around Miami, I just couldn’t sleep. My husband, sons and I immediately packed our belongings in Lyon, took the requisite pre-flight Covid tests, and headed back to our home near Montpellier. This typically takes almost 3 hours, but with traffic and the fact that we drive an all-electric car, it took closer to 5 hours. A little longer than usual because we thought we were charging the car at one high-speed station, when in fact it was not activated at all, and had to redo the whole process which takes 40 minutes each time. During the roadtrip, I was able to book our flights at a surprisingly good rate; plus inform my sons’ teachers, neighbors, friends and family about our abrupt travel plans and the reason for it. This frenzy would eventually bring about an endless slew of phone calls, text messages and condolences over my mobile phone. All the while I was trying to process the sheer fact that my father is now gone and explained to our sons that their Abuelo was no longer with us, and they will be attending their first family, Cuban-Miami style funeral.
In a state of mind of going through the motions, I knew we had to get home, repack our suitcases and head out to Barcelona to take our flight to Miami the next morning. I could not smile, cry, laugh, or yell. It was as if a void invaded my body. I had to keep asking Randy if my father was actually dead because I needed to be reassured that this was really happening. Somewhere on this timeline, I managed to speak with my mom once she was awakened from this life-defining night, and she was more in a daze than myself. What I said to her, I do not recall, but I let her know that we will all be there the following evening. Both my brothers were making their way by car to Miami, while my family and I had to maneuver through the rigors of international travels during the Covid-era.
This is the exact scenario that I dreaded when we decided to move to France: the late in the night phone call meant to communicate an unexpected passing of a loved one. When I decided to move internationally, I made a personal consensus that these things will happen, and that I had to manage it the best I could. My travels would be farther than most but luckily, international traveling between Western Europe and the U.S. is quite accessible. Montpellier is only a three-hour drive from Barcelona, which has regular scheduled flights to Miami. Our departing flight was not direct, it took us to a layover at JFK, which spells trouble if one has ever had to catch a connection there.
With a five-hour stop at home, I was furiously doing laundry loads, turning over our winter wardrobe of coats and gloves to shorts, t-shirts, mourning attire and stuffing them into our luggage along with finding our passports. Our original plan was to catch a train but after a look at the schedule, I concluded none corresponded to our departure time. We had no choice but to drive the 3-hour trip to Barcelona and get a hotel near the airport to catch the 11 a.m. flight the next morning. So at about 7 p.m., we piled ourselves back in our Peugeot as Randy craftily loaded our suitcases into our compact car, ready for another trek. I guess I was not the only one walking around in a stupor because once we turned on the car, we quickly found out that it was never properly plugged-in for a recharge.
At this stage, we had no recourse but to improvise on the road. Supercharging stations are plotted along highways throughout France and the European Union. The best ones are called Ionity, a joint business venture between international automakers supplying high-power charging to facilitate long-distances for electric vehicles across Europe. However, the stretch of roadways between Montpellier and Barcelona did not have any until we were closer to our destination. We were subjected to using the slow chargers which are painful and inefficient especially during times like these, and can take hours to get a full battery. This is the same kind of electrical delivery system we have at home, but we plug ours overnight. Our e-Peugeot was barely a quarter charged, and traveling at high speeds quickly drains the battery. Then there is the matter of getting a charger that actually works. There have been numerous times that we have pulled up to a unit only to find it inoperable. This is exactly what happened when we tried to locate a charger delivering 22 kw in some French town we plucked off the map. With the power running dangerously low, and the Mediterranean winds wildly swirly at about 30 mph, a force that would rip open the doors to our compact vehicle every time we exited, Randy and I settled for another spot on the GPS map.
Our 3-hour voyage eventually turned into an all-night excursion. Taking naps, along with turns driving, we drove from one slow-charging station to another. This tactic would give our Peugeot enough power to make it to the next stop along the route. At one point, when we got out to charge, we had a meal in a quaint little spot in one French village slightly off the highway. I sat in this cramped, stone-facade restaurant, in a suspended state of disbelief, while doing my best to be somewhat engaged with my children. My mind continued to spin like a broken record, over and over, repeating, that my father had died. The constant replay of those words may have been a way for my brain to internalize the reality of the situation and what I would confront once I land in my hometown.
Notre-Dame de la Garde
It was almost 5 a.m. by the time we arrived in Barcelona with our sons, long ago passed out in the back seat. We finally reached an Ionity charger slightly ahead of our arrival, eliminating the need for another stop. Our flight was scheduled for 11 a.m., and in those early morning hours, I found a place for breakfast that had our sons drinking that thick, syrupy-chocolate drink that the Spaniards love, while I stuck to a cafe con leche without an appetite for much else. I barely rested during our all-night stunt of getting us to the Barcelona airport, but at least we managed to do so safely without stalling from a loss of a vehicle charge.
As our family made our way to the airport, we handed over our car keys to a stranger affiliated with a long term parking service, and headed inside to the terminal. I somehow maneuvered the ordeals of international travel managing to complete the necessary documentation that Covid imposed, including downloading another useless app on my phone required by the airline for verification. This was the first time I was returning back to America since I moved in November 2020, and a month before our family had tickets to travel for the Christmas holidays. I could not shake the fact that I missed seeing my father again by a mere month. Last time we spoke, he expressed how much he was looking forward to having us all there. The year prior, it was he who drove my family to the Miami airport when we left for France, and that would be the last time I would ever hug him.
I would have liked to say that I was able to sleep on the plane, but that proved to be impossible. My thoughts were restless and rattled, and I was partially detached from the environment that surrounded me. It was unfathomable to think that here I was on an airplane with my sons and husband en route to attend my father’s funeral. Eventually, I would return back to France alone after two and a half weeks while the rest of my family would leave just after one. This was for the purpose of keeping my mother company and helping her get resettled.
In the early morning hours we finally arrived in Miami, about 1 a.m. Monday morning. There was a 5-hour delay in JFK that had me curse that airport as one to avoid at all cost for future connections. My younger brother picked us up, he too was shattered by the sudden passing of our father at age 74, and like myself, simply stunned by the unpredictability of it all. Our conversation revolved around the turn of events of how he died of a massive heart attack, and if anything could have been done to save him. One thing I found reassuring is that I know my dad was never a good patient, and any type of long term illness was something that would have been difficult for him to cope with. Also dealing with advancing old-age would have frustrated him, especially if limited mobility would have been a factor. I may have been telling myself this to feel better about the outcome of his death, and be more at ease that he passed away before old-age really caught up with him. Also knowing that these are the things we tell ourselves to manage loss and grief.
By the time I got to my mother’s, I walked through the door to receive what I regard as the longest embrace we have ever given one another, where not a single word was spoken. Her home will be filled with family for the days to come, and she will not be completely alone for sometime. It was then I came to better understand that grieving being around those you love makes all the difference.
The funeral plans were previously taken care of by my mother, along with her sister. It was my aunt who shepherded my mom through the fraught, decision-making of planning for the viewing and burial the day after my father’s passing. The day after I arrived, after another night of poor sleep, I accompanied my mother along with one of my brothers and his wife to the burial site.
When we arrived at the facility, we were greeted by a woman in her 40s, boasting a booming personality that would have everyone turning their heads in her direction when she spoke. First of all, there is something quite astonishing like a cemetery salesperson telling you that if they do not depart to their exotic vacation very soon, they will explode from the stress. Apparently, Covid has kept this business supremely occupied and the work was insurmountable. This resulted in the cemetery running out of plots to sell. However, one spot did become miraculously available for a princely sum that I will not repeat here, for purchase. Aside from the saleswoman spewing tales of constant death from a pandemic that has pushed the business to the brink of exhaustion, she also divulged details about her upcoming holiday and the hopes to snatch a handsome man during her stay.
Using a golf cart for a distance that was 2-minutes away on foot, she brought us to the resting place at one of the mausoleum buildings. At the very top spot, is where my father’s casket will be entombed and an inscription would need to be decided upon. The saleslady with her theatrical flair, reviewed the details of the burial plan. She managed to squeeze in a sales pitch directed to my mother so as to not forget to purchase one for herself. This woman would have sold a plan to my mother on the spot had we not expressed this was all overwhelming for us to make another decision about death. To her, it was just another day at work with another dollar to be made.
Later on, we went to the funeral home where things took on a similar vibe, and I will refrain from identifying their name. Many Cuban-American families have used their services throughout the decades. For about that same amount of time, they have had these brown leather couches taking up residence in their seating areas accompanied by this peachy-hued bland wallpaper and gold-tone fixtures. These sofas are the kind that swallow you whole when you sit down. So much so, that particularly those getting on with years require assistance getting out of them.
We were greeted by a seasoned veteran at this establishment, and as I listened intently to what she was saying, I could not help but notice her nonchalant sarcasm. Her tone evoked that she has performed this routine a million times and cracked jokes in between lines. From her perspective, it was another overpriced service that needed to be had. This made me wonder if Covid took funeral professionals to a new level of numbness about conducting these transactions, or was it just the way things are done in Miami.
However, I will explain that what I feared the most about this particular place is their tendency for the dearly departed to be depicted in their caskets barely recognizable. It is to the point of being slightly shocked from their appearance at the viewing. One dear friend’s 90-plus year-old grandmother had to be redone after the family complained that her face was characterized to look like “a Parisian lady of the evening” circa 1920s, with overly blushed cheeks. Knowing all of this, I was anxious about my father’s final presentation as he has always been quite frickle over his appearance.
In the end, the outcome is as good as one can expect for these kinds of things. My family and friends were supportive, and for some, many years have passed between our last personal encounter. It was warming to see them there, and I will be forever grateful that it made this unexpected return home easier to endure surrounded by such solace. I was most astonished by my two sons, particularly Miles, my oldest, who at 13 years-old, showed a matured compassion during the funeral proceedings. His adolescent face, accented by the same pronounced dimpled chin that was also on my father. It was Miles who held my hand as prayers were said over his grandfather’s casket while Randy stayed further back with our youngest.
Following the burial rituals, people dissolved into their own corners of their lives. Eventually I too returned to my family in France, with the reassurance that we will be back in three weeks time for the Christmas holidays to fill up my mother’s home again. As of now, my grieving process is still ongoing, as I think it will continue to be for some time.
As a parent, my father has always shown support and unconditional love, even through his legendary stubbornness that prevailed over him while on this earth. I also know that his spirit of resilience for all that he has endured in his lifetime, first in Cuba, later as a young immigrant in America, and then as a business owner in the cut throat world of hospitality, resides somewhere inside of me too. I like to think that I channel some of that resilience as I navigate and etch a life for myself in France. It is about learning to live a little differently, adapting to new experiences and finding ways to understand a culture where you now call home.
La vida te da sorpresas, sorpresas te da la vida…from Rubén Blades’ song, “Pedro Navaja”
(Life gives you surprises, surprises give you life… )
wonderlifeofmom 
Dear Grace, I am so sorry to hear of your dad’s death. Keith may have told me but I did not take it in. Your post resonated in many ways, I also lost my dad recently and am still in the “no way. what???” stage. Thanks for sharing your experience so deeply.
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