Kathy Foley

March 30th, 2008

The mandarins of the French foreign ministry in Paris have one overweening preoccupation these days, apparently. According to a ministry adviser quoted in the Irish Times, “they talk of little else at the Quai d’Orsay”.

What do you think this obsession might be? Go on, have a guess. A possible French boycott of the Olympic Games because of the unrest in Tibet? No. President Sarkozy’s visit to London or his new wife’s
decision to wear flat pumps when meeting the Queen? No and no.

It transpires that the issue that has caused much grimacing, gesticulating and exclamations of “quel horreur!”, is the sale of the French embassy in Ireland. France is verging on bankruptcy and its gaff in Dublin is being flogged for €60m as part of a global fire sale to raise some much-needed argent.

Other diplomats stationed in Dublin reportedly “feel sorry” for their French counterparts. The whole episode, apparently, represents a horribleloss of face for the French on the cocktails-and-canapés circuit.

Yvon Roe d’Albert, the French ambassador, has had previous postings in Cuba and Cambodia, but any travails he may have endured in the past can scarcely have prepared him for life as a homeless person on the mean streets of Dublin. Fingers crossed, the French government will be able to stump up for a bedsit in Phibsborough or perhaps Rathmines, which would be much more convenient to the embassy belt of Dublin 4.

Digs could also be a cut-price option for the French: “Right, Mr Ambassador, I do the dinner at six o’clock every day. It’s a cold plate on Sunday, stew on Monday, mince on Tuesday, a pork chop on
Wednesday and sausages on Thursday. I only do five days so you’ll have to go home at weekends.

“And whoever she is, she’s not staying over. First secretary? I don’t care if she’s the 21st secretary, no guests allowed. Can you hold receptions? I’ll give you a reception if I come home to find parties
on here. There’s your key. The front door is double-locked at 10 o’clock. And one more thing…I don’t know what you’re planning on doing with that crate of Ferraro Rocher out in the driveway, but you’re not bringing it into the house. I’m allergic to nuts.”

Monsieur Roe d’Albert will be joining a growing cadre of ambassadors on their uppers in Dublin. The Canadian ambassador’s residence, a mansion in Killiney, was recently sold for €17m, leaving him to suffer the privations of life in an apartment in the Four Seasons in Ballsbridge, while the British ambassador is merely renting his former residence, which was sold for €35.6m in 1999. Three or four other countries are also planning to sell off their ambassadorial residences, according to Dublin estate agents.

The transformation of Ireland from what must have been one of the cushiest numbers in international diplomacy into a hardship posting can only be causing consternation in ex-pat haunts around the world. Imagine the scene: ceiling fans whirring above and ice clinking in gin and tonics while seasoned attachés blanch at the latest coded missive from the diplomatic bag:
“The new embassy in Dublin is a two-up, two-down former council house. There hasn’t been an hors d’oeuvre served there in months. And worse again, there are roving bands of clampers who couldn’t give a toss about diplomatic immunity.”

There might seem to be worse fates for a diplomat than to be shipped off to Ireland — it’s not like those posted in Dublin have to deal with oppressive heat, dodgy plumbing and malaria, but at least posts like Kabul, Karachi and Khartoum carry a certain frisson. Those national representatives sent to Dublin won’t be able to boast of having survived coups, civil wars and marauding militias (unless you
count the clampers).

That said, life as a Dublin-based diplomat has other challenges besides the possible lack of a swanky embassy. The report on diplomatic living conditions in Ireland on eDiplomat.com pulls no punches. Transport and motoring are proving to be a particular bugbear.

Traffic here is heavy, it says, and Irish people drive aggressively and too quickly on “a road network system that is out of date”.

“Buses and trains are usually crowded,” it adds. “Taxis are expensive and may be difficult to obtain.”

Diplomats are also warned not to get sick in Ireland if at all possible: “Competent specialists in all fields of medicine and dentistry provide satisfactory services, but their equipment is not always as modern as in the U.S. [...] Obtain special medical or dental treatment before coming to post.”

And Irish houses are small, with small rooms, small appliances and inadequate wiring systems. They are also “frequently cold”; the report counsels diplomats to bring flannel pyjamas and bed socks.

There are other bombshells awaiting any diplomat posted here. It is difficult to track down both fat-free food and narrow shoes in this country, apparently, and finding “competent and dependable servants” is nigh on impossible.

The report saves the worst blow for last:
“The Dublin Grand Opera Society and Dublin City Ballet are not world-class companies,” it says, adding by way of consolation that the outfits concerned “do provide appealing entertainment”.

Of course, the main reason to be a diplomat, or a diplomat’s spouse, is that once you retire, you get to write a heartwarming, if patronising, account of your years on the front line. Typical existing examples include Cocktails, Crises and Cockroaches, Journeying Far and Wide, and Bush Hat, Black Tie.

Give it 10 or 20 years and there’ll be a raft of memoirs from diplomats who survived being posted to Dublin. Likely titles should include Cruel Landladies, Crowded Buses and Chilly Houses, Journeying
Nowhere Much in Terrible Traffic and Bed Socks, Bad Opera. Bestsellers all, I’m sure.