Funerals and Longevity

When my father passed away in April, I had to organise his funeral.
Among his many hobbies, one stood out: roaming markets in search of a deal. He negotiated everything, almost instinctively, for years.
My first real trip, at age 14, was to London’s Portobello Road.

As a student, I used to smuggle Swatch watches bought at Porta Portese at 5 AM from some naïve underground “kraut” crews. Those were my first acts of piracy.
Even today, I still hack bigger systems, in the eternal hope of breaking into Genesis—that is, how God might have created man.
As for woman… I’m still looking for the instruction manual.

When it came to my father’s funeral, I couldn’t accept the first quote I got. That would have meant I’d learned nothing from years of bargaining.
So, while he was being taken to hospice in his final hours—and I had more time, no longer needing to care for him physically—I started going around, looking for the best price.

I’m crying as I write this.
During those negotiations, I refused condolences. My father was still alive.
But more than that, condolences would have added an emotional weight to the bargaining. So I stayed cold, replying simply, “He’s still alive.”

That changed the tone immediately, and gave me the upper hand.
In the end, I got the best deal.
And in such cases, you even gain the respect of the other party—in fact, they even asked me to become their partner in some way.
People who didn’t know my father would ask his age, as if to suggest that, all things considered, his time had come.

I would reply by telling them that last August, even with the disease in an advanced stage, he was still grocery shopping on his scooter—though he complained he had trouble turning right.
He thought he had lost vision in one eye.

After 40 days and several thousand euros in tests, a renowned oncologist told us that a brain metastasis had lifted his retina: he had indeed lost vision in one eye.
Since November, the issue was “definitively” resolved on April 11—ten days before the Pope died on Easter Monday.

With bitter laughter, we might say: resurrection is highly overrated.

Every funeral home asked for his age, trying to gauge how long the ceremony would last.
By the third quote, I asked why.
Apparently, when a young person dies, the church fills up, and the service drags on as everyone comes to say goodbye.

People feel the need to give long speeches about everything this person could have become.
But when the elderly die, fewer people show up, and the service is quicker—unless they were politicians or tycoons who provided jobs to thousands.

I told everyone about my father’s scooter adventures—up until six months before he passed—trying to show that he was still young in spirit.
A close friend said he spoke to everyone: from 20-year-olds to centenarians, rich or poor, male or female.
And in the end, on the day of the funeral, the church was full—on a weekday, in the outskirts of town.
It was proof: he was young.
He was always doing favours for people, without needing a reason.
Even the priest and the funeral directors were amazed.

Four of us gave his eulogy: my children—his beloved grandchildren, the first ones, those he lived with the longest—Giusy, his dearest friend, and me.
My son, one of the grandchildren, and I carried the coffin out of a church filled with people.
In the “rules” of longevity, one of them is to make new friends, along with learning new things.
To live long, you must stay curious, keep creating new connections. That’s why old people’s funerals are often sparsely attended.

You lose that curiosity for life, for others—slipping into an old mindset.
The young stay curious. They learn, meet new people, travel, share stories, listen, make themselves available.
Our brain sends this information to the body—and the body adapts.
Look around you and take joy in the little things, like children.
Don’t become jaded. You haven’t seen anything yet.
My son said, “Let’s face it—my grandpa was a cool guy.”
My daughter said, “Grandpa always told me to try anything, even if I didn’t think I could do it. He pushed me to go for it.”

Be cool. Try everything. That’s the fun path to longevity.

My father died young.

Sergio d’Arpa