Since we had four full days in Venice, we decided to spend one of them on a nearby island. Researching travel plans has become a much more difficult task with an infant but my wife came across some positive reviews of the island of Burano, a 45 minute ferry ride from Venice, and so off we went for maybe the most colourful afternoon of our lives.
I can’t tell you many clever things about Burano or even the reason for the colourful homes but usually that has to do with sailors being able to identify their location in poor conditions. Either way, the colours of Burano have been saturated for the Instagram generation and the hundreds of colourful home-fronts did not disappoint.
We strolled, ate more wonderful seafood and, of course, took loads of pictures. We got a taste of the returning tourist crowds on our way home, waiting in line for an hour for the ferry home. But the stroller came in handy and we were plucked out of line and got to board first. Aleksander was a champion as always, letting us enjoy the day while he mostly snoozed.
If you find yourself in Venice with some spare time, hop on a ferry to Burano and enjoy this jewel of a find.
After a month of weekends spent in Rome, visiting and revisiting many of the city’s best known historical sites, we decided it was time to leave these beautiful urban confines. It hasn’t been an entirely easy transition to European life with a stroller. The ancients weren’t necessarily thinking about baby problems when they designed and laid out their streets. So one of our biggest concerns about leaving our home area, even for a few hours, is how to manage with a six month old. We ultimately decided to test out leaving the stroller behind, only bringing a carrier and hoping Aleksander’s head doesn’t bobble too much napping for a few hours strapped to our chests.
The destination we decided on was the seaside town of Ostia. Ostia is well-known amongst Romans as a quick and easy summer escape from the concrete, heat and crowds of peak tourist season in the Eternal City. It’s a very convenient 20-minute city train ride from Rome and the train was busy with beach seekers, young and old, keen to return to a normal post-pandemic summer life.
Since one of my main life goals while living in Rome is to be a member of a beach club, I was thrilled to see the sand and lapping waves of the Mediterranean. The hot sun was buffered by a cool seaside breeze and we kept ourselves and Aleksander hydrated at every step. We took pictures on the Ostia pier, sat down for a wonderful seafood lunch, grabbed a gelato (of course), walked the boardwalk (assessing beach clubs) and even dipped Aleksander’s toes in the water.
Dalia is essentially a mermaid who loves the water so we’re thrilled to have a beach within such a short distance from our home. We look forward to further exploring Ostia in future, as well as working through all the ‘beaches to visit’ lists we can find.
Dad in the world will hopefully soon become dad on the beach!
Nothing prepares you for the death of a parent, even if during your entire life you know it’s an inevitability. There is nothing that doesn’t suck about it. The event itself sucks. The things you have to do afterwards suck. And the way you feel sucks. There is no real silver lining – although we twist ourselves into knots to convince ourselves of some.
Maybe because my wedding anniversary was last week, I was reflecting on the comparison between the two life-altering events. The main similarities are the grandeur – both spiritual and earthly – and the shocking associated costs. Otherwise, they’re pretty much inverses.
Weddings you plan in detail over months, working towards your day with a joyful vision in mind. Death arrives on its own time. If you’re lucky, you might know the year or month it’s coming. It goes off like a nuclear bomb – in your heart, through your family, in your community. You go zombie-like while doing a million things that need doing. Ideally, one would have a communications team, finance office, legal department and more than anything, a professional to sob in front of. And yet there you go, turning off constant phone buzzing while choosing a cemetery plot and casket colour; drafting and delivering meaningful words for one final moment; flipping through decades of layers of memories and possessions, deciding how to honour them properly. Like I said, most of it sucks. But it’s also necessary and unavoidable.
Somehow I feel like I’ve opened a new level of human maturity by dealing with my dad’s death. Even if the lessons are impossible to articulate, you know that they are being learned. About reality, in the truest sense. About love, about relationships, about loss. Even about how many wallets and belts one person actually needs!
My dad comes to mind about five times a day. When I would have usually given him a call. When I hear the word ‘fantastico’ or phrase ‘don’t be sorry, be happy’ in his voice in my head. When I think about being 7 or 17, or even 37. I have to keep the sadness at bay because life continues despite his departure.
After one month, I still hope and pray that his soul is at peace and am grateful that mine has found the strength to honour his life and keep living mine.
My dad died sitting in his favourite chair. I’d like to think that he was watching House Hunters International or Caribbean Beach Life, as he liked to do. Dreaming of sun, warmth and beaches as he drifted off.
He was born on Christmas Day and maintained his whole life that it made him extra lucky. There were at least three inexplicably lucky events that I remember from my childhood that have no rational explanation other than his Christmas Day birth. One involved winning a department store draw for a necklace for my mom and my wildly gleaning eyes shining alight at this magical good fortune.
He died on June 29th, the Feast Day of St. Peter and St. Paul. Not exactly lucky, but the death coming on the Feast Day of the saints who share names with my brother and I, has brought me profound comfort and feels like a direct and clear message from the sacred lips of God Himself. For me, June 29th is now the Feast Day of Peter, Paul and Zdzisiu (z-jee-shu).
We publicly announced my father’s death on Canada Day, another oddly auspicious occurrence. Our dad loved Canada in a way that can only arise from the sincere belief that the country saved his life, without hyperbole. Not general and inherited but uniquely personal. He always cherished that Canada had provided him and his family escape, welcome and opportunity.
I’ve often marvelled at the image of my 27 year old father, arriving in Sudbury in February, with wife and infant son in tow, not a word of the language, not a familiar face in sight, and hungry after the flight because they didn’t eat out of fear of how much the in-flight meal would cost. In Canada, he turned down a three dollar an hour job installing windows because he had a family to feed. Delivered pizzas, cleaned theatres at night, drove airport limos. Bought a car, established a career, purchased a home. He saw his sons grow, thrive, graduate and succeed. He was able to rest easy. Share the pride and joy of fatherhood with pretty much anyone who would listen. ‘You boys were the centre of his world,’ read one message received last week.
He died peacefully on the Feast Day of St. Peter and St. Paul.
I am only slowly becoming accustomed to the void left in my life after my dad’s death. I’ve taken to referring to it as a shadow. Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes laugh out loud funny and other times, close the door to the world with sobs. I like to imagine that he can now see things he couldn’t before. The beautiful private moments of daily life; trips long ago taken; the kind love between me and my wife, the daughter he never had; the opportunities that we will continue to live; and the blessings that we will always share with his spirit.
I’ve also been remembering the trillion things that make up the dna of who my dad was. The way he would whistle to me from the stands when I was a little Polish hockey player. Even in a full arena, I could always make out his motivating sign of encouragement. The way he screamed ‘yeahhh babbyyyy’ so loudly when the Maple Leafs scored that the whole street could hear. That he bought me a Raptors hat on the day the team was announced and jumped back on the bandwagon 25 years later for their championship run. How he organized volleyball games for his friends for almost 30 years. How he played tennis with my mom and I when I was a kid and still hit the ball around decades later with my brother. How he loved to barbecue – filet mignon, cheesy garlic bread, baked potatoes. How he fried kielbasa to a salty crisp before adding it to his scrambled eggs; experimented with spices to perfect his chili; put so much dressing in his caesar salad that even he called it a heartattack salad. He joyfully threw out his alarm clock on the day he retired. Laughed hysterically on the day I smashed both the front and rear bumpers on my mom’s car while doing such a crappy job that I could barely even pay for one. Spent hours tinkering on his boat with a friend in our garage. Bought me all the right brands and shoes when that seemed very important. Took us on all the relaxing all-inclusives and made fast friends with the staff. Shared tips about girls and how to survive heartache. Was the tidiest person I ever met. Was a proud patriot, a self-styled Jakubiak ‘freedom fighter’, and never backed down from a fight. Told me upon learning that my now-wife was half Russian, “We’ve been fighting the Russians for centuries,” and then went on to fall in love with her anyway. He deeply loved the sun and beach, and even though he almost never swam, was still the acknowledged king of the condo pool. He worked two or three jobs almost his whole life. He took me to the baseball all-star game in Toronto in 1991 even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand the rules of the game. He insisted on getting two cards and two gifts on Christmas Day, always reminding us of his birthday. I remember how he let me take his car out of town on a summer long weekend the day after getting my license. Always made sure my guests had enough to eat when they came over for a party. How he used to write poetry as a young man. How much he loved the Greeks for welcoming our little family before we left for Canada. For laughing at Ottawa as a faraway town where ‘dogs bark out of both ends.’ How he made me nutella sandwiches with milk for breakfast. How he came to love Nintendo sports video games and played with my cousins and I. How he contemplated the meaning of life, God and time. How easily he discussed politics. How he made good and unexpected friends wherever he went. How he won a pose-down contest at a resort in the Dominican Republic even though he never lifted a weight in his life. How he held on to everything sentimental. Kept all my brother’s volleyball programs, rewatched all our family VHS tapes and always appreciated the souvenirs I brought him back from travel. He put my brother and I into French immersion even though he never spoke a word of the language himself. Whenever anyone sneezed, he would immediately mumble ‘shaddduppp’ and it’s the first thing that comes to my mind when I hear someone sneeze in public. He loved music. Santana, Janis Joplin, Metallica, Sheryl Crow and blasted salsa while he cleaned. His hair was always combed, shoes cleaned and shirt pressed. He tipped generously. He loved shrimp-fest at Red Lobster and juicy Cantonese style fried noodles, with no water chestnuts. He was most proud of his journey and establishment into Canada and mentioned it in almost every conversation in recent years. He insisted on a call every time we got back to Ottawa – the lack of which really hit me returning home last Sunday.
There are so many strands in a person’s life. My list could go on and on, and I’m sure that my mom and brother would say the same.
There is a finality to death that feels so alien to the human experience. In its abruptness, irreversibleness, opaqueness, inflexibility and non-negotiable reality. The only appropriate response is to lean into the Love. Only it can fill the holes, mend the wounds and soothe the soul.
I loved my dad like any good son – for many years he was my world, and after that, I always knew that I owed him mine.
I pray that his soul is at rest. Hopefully on a new favourite chair, still dreaming of sunshine and beaches, reunited with his many loved ones, keeping an eye on those of us still down here, and radiating with the Love of the Heavens above.
Dad In The World 