Finding a glass of wine for €6 in Dublin these days could be compared to a wild goose chase. If you’re in the heart of the city, you’re likely to pay upwards of €8 for the pub’s house wine, based on personal experience.
A mate and I recently had a typical Sunday lunch at a run-of-the-mill pub in Dublin 8, where the perfectly average glasses of wine set us back €9.50 each. In fact, my friend still mentions it with a shudder similar to that of someone suffering from PTSD.
In a turn of events earlier this month, I found myself accompanying a mixed group of adults and children to Disneyland Paris for an extended weekend. An odd choice for someone like me without kids and whose fascination with Disney peaked when The Lion King soundtrack was solely available on cassette tape. Yet, in the face of FOMO, I opted to join the excursion.
And what an experience it was! From the thrilling rollercoasters, drone formations, spectacular firework displays, enchanting princess parades and the crème de la crème- white wine, generously filled glasses for a mere €6, not a cent more! The phrase “Disneyland is cheaper than Dublin” quickly became our mantra, especially when we discovered the cut-price libations on a damp third day in the amusement park.
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Disney may not directly market the ready availability of alcohol, but we managed to locate the source without too much trouble. After two exhausting days alternating between the Tower of Terror and Thunder Mountain, it was time for mum and the fun aunt to find shelter under a Chez Rémy umbrella, sipping from wine glasses while the incessantly energetic kids and dads pursued more adrenaline-fuelled adventures.
“Perhaps a move to France is in order,” we pondered over our third glass of wine, visualising an ideal world where the savings from our alcohol expenditure fuel a carefree existence in the French countryside. A day spent in Paris before Disneyland led us to believe it was competitively priced compared to Dublin. We questioned a child who returned, mouth colourfully painted blue indulging in a large tub of candyfloss about the cost. “€7!” I gasped. “That would be €10 at Funderland.”
When I venture overseas, I’m often haunted by the unsettling feeling that my nation may be portraying me as a clown. During my vacation in Portugal the prior summer, I explored the value of homes nestled amidst the serene countryside where we were lodging, and came across an alluring eight-bedroom villa priced at €300,000. Similarly located in Dublin, a flat only a couple of residences away from mine is commanding a price of nearly €400,000. The glaring revamp of the entrance hallway and door, coupled with the clamorous Saturday morning inspections tipped me off.
Naturally curious, I surfed Daft and guffawed at the declaration that it was “filled with light”. With drearily-oriented, West-facing ends like my own, and lacking windows in the kitchen and bathroom, it’s anticipated that they would share my challenges of keeping flora thriving. Something to note is that the individuals who stopped by to evaluate the property didn’t appear to be the ones intending to move in (of course, armed with curiosity, I glued my eye to the spyhole and indulged in subtle eavesdropping, keen to make deductions from dialogue and appearances). The likely rental yields could promptly start chipping away at the lofty €400k asking price.
Fortunate as I am to own a home, I nevertheless find much to appreciate about it – despite the necessity to supplement my intake of vitamin D, due to the scantiness of sunlight. However, the allure of foreign locales appears irresistibly lush. It’s daunting to think that more affordable options might reside in locations such as Disneyland, eclipsing the prices of housing in my native land. Since aggravating headlines daily exacerbate the ever-deteriorating housing showdown, the dream of homeownership for many Irish folks seems a distant illusion. Meanwhile, renting proves an uncertain and volatile risk. Ongoing investigations, while a tad underhanded, into my neighbouring unit have triggered concerns for the recently departed occupants, their situation mirroring my fear: the probable issuing of an eviction notice, and a subsequent scavenger hunt for a new, reasonable dwelling.
Purchasing a bubble gun featuring Mickey Mouse for £25, a spontaneous decision fuelled by a few drinks for a courageous child of five, grounded my Parisian relocation aspirations. I expected nothing less from the French; they even manage to get wine right in commercial theme parks. Similarly, I inadvertently came across a TikTok video showing a Parisian Airbnb; the shower bizarrely located in the kitchen and the loo squeezed into a closet. It made the outrageous Dublin studio letting market seem less shocking. Nonetheless, since getting back, my feverish midnight searches for £100k French castles in the Languedoc region have been relentless. I’m thinking a SAD lamp may be necessary.