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We touched down in Barcelona (all-night beach party), Paris (foie gras, clubbing), Champagne (champagne)—then to the Loire Valley for the wedding, which was catered by a Michelin-starred chef—followed by Bordeaux (wine), Toulon (more wine), Monaco (cliffside villa, casino), Rome (pasta, pizza, prosecco), and then home—sunburnt, exhausted, pickled from booze, but euphoric.My wildest trip in recent memory was in 2013: my cousin was in Asia on business, so a few of us decided on a whim to join him.Then we hopped on a plane to Manila, where we stayed in the city’s most luxurious hotel.Our lawyer friend really wanted to swim with whale sharks, so we caught a flight to Bohol, a tiny island nearby.
I could say that this was a freak incident—a one-time blowout, but that would be a lie. I’m 31, single, and I live with my parents in a two-storey home in North York. And, unlike just about everyone 25 and older in this city, I don’t want in on the real estate craze. I follow the market closely and could hitch myself to a 0,000 mortgage tomorrow if I wanted.We gorged and guzzled our way through the rest of the weekend, eating ridiculously decadent cronuts from a pâtisserie, smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz’s, fondue from an amazing Old Montreal restaurant called Bistro Marché de la Villette.We uncorked bottle after bottle of Amarone as we went.I still sleep in my childhood bedroom, beneath my Mario Lemieux poster and framed picture of Jesus. But when I consider what I’d be giving up just to own a few hundred square feet, I am convinced: the Toronto real estate market is for suckers, and I want no part of it. y main group of friends and I call ourselves the Core Four—I’m known as the Plus One—and for the most part, we’re philosophically aligned.First, there’s my older brother, who works in banking as a financial analyst.