This week was an unusual one for me, as I made a whirlwind trip to France to be with my dad on his 80th birthday. I’ve already written about him here and here. I hadn’t planned on flying home, but when I heard that a little get-together was planned in one of Lyon’s finest brasseries, I felt a pang of regret and booked my flights on the spot. I’ve missed a lot in my more than 20 years living abroad: birthdays, anniversaries, and more difficult moments too—waiting anxiously on the phone, hoping for good news, and not being able to say goodbye to my grandmother, who passed away when I was living in Shanghai.
Technology has definitely come a long way since I moved to Spain in 2003. Simply being able to see my parents’ faces on my phone or call them for free still belonged to the realm of science fiction back then. But while WhatsApp and FaceTime may give the impression of eliminating the distance that separates us, it’s not fooling anyone—I’m not where they are. I imagine everyone has their own ways of dealing with what often feels like guilt. In the twenty-two years since I left France and have been surrounded by people who, like me, live far from “home,” one of the phrases I hear the most often is a more or less direct variant of “My parents aren’t getting any younger.” It’s one of the reasons why many choose to move back or, at least, closer geographically. For my part, I started going to France twice a year ever since I realized that winter holidays in Thailand – as stunning as they were – were missed opportunities to spend time with my parents and family while they were in the full of their health.
I know that several members of the community have been hit hard recently by the loss of loved ones, and that I am extremely fortunate to still have both of my parents and be able to set aside accreditation paperwork, meetings, and work in general to share an equally festive and meaningful moment with my family. Eighty years are not to be sneezed at. They add up to a myriad of memories and anecdotes as well as scars, titanium hips, and knee replacement surgeries. They add up to a touching relationship with his grandkids, and of course, a long, long love story with my mother, whom he married nearly 58 years ago, in December 1967 (ChatGPT tells me it’s their rose anniversary). My father, my mother, and my sister are an endless source of inspiration for me. I think of them far more often than I call them, and much more often than they realize. Reuniting with them for a few hours this week for a meal and a particularly notable bottle of Saint Joseph did me a world of good. In the end, the trip was a somewhat selfish gesture on my part – of the four of us, I was hands down the happiest to be there.
In the subway on the way to the restaurant, a young man immediately offered my dad his seat. He saw an old man with white hair and a fragile frame. My father may be 80 years old, but to me, he will always be the titan who overcame the fate that his childhood seemed to have mapped out for him and who taught me never to give up on my dreams. It is thanks to him that I am here in New York with you today. I owe that to him. And so, even on his birthday, he’s the one giving me a gift.