Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  CHAPTER 11

  Birkin Bankruptcy

  For all the luck I was having telephoning the Hermès shops looking for a Birkin, I might as well have asked if their refrigerator was running (or if they had Prince Albert in a can). Madrid’s salesperson kept it short and sweet; all I got was a “Sorry, no Birkins here.” My call to Barcelona marked a milestone, the first time I actually heard those infamous words…(drumroll, please)…“the waiting list.” They said two or three years, but I put my name on it anyway. I wasn’t going anywhere. Subsequent calls to Marbella, Lisbon, and Biarritz were the same; I always dead-ended at one of those two responses. (I took some comfort in the knowledge that in two or three years I’d be rolling in Birkins.) Undeterred, I planned a summer trip, half business, half pleasure. It was time to go straight to the source—France.

  Le Monde d’Hermès at my elbow, I mapped it out. It was an easy trip: first stop Montpellier, then a hop, skip, and a jump to Aix-en-Provence, which is very close to Avignon, which is a short drive to Marseille, which is not far from Cannes, which is only down the road from St. Tropez, which is just across the border from Monte Carlo (technically Monaco, but no one really knows that), which is on the way to Milan (I’ve always loved Italian food). I printed it all off MapQuest and laid it next to my already-packed-to-the-hilt jumbo suitcase. I would embark the next morning. I woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented—I had dreamed of a two-year waiting list to cross France’s border.

  My first destination, the Montpellier Hermès shop, was located in the Place de la Comédie. This centuries-old stone town square, surrounding a fountain, was home to the city’s finest boutiques. The saleswoman, who looked barely out of her teens, was sweet, but she scampered off at the first mention of a Birkin. She returned with a young man, presumably her manager, who apologetically offered up a consolation prize—a Kelly bag. I didn’t know what a Kelly bag was (more questions for Google and Grace), but I knew it wasn’t a Birkin. I pulled out my wish lists and went scarf shopping. Something had to pay for this trip.

  Next stop, Aix-en-Provence. I’d read the Peter Mayle books, but I was still unprepared for anything this picturesque. It was like a Twilight Zone episode where the main character gets trapped in a Paul Cézanne painting…and I happened to be the main character. The shop here was really tiny—like, changing-room tiny. I had not spotted a Birkin in the seventeen seconds it took to look around, and my spirits sank. If they had one, it was in their secret Birkin Batcave in the basement. As I’d suspected, it was “Aucunes Birkins, désolé” (No Birkins, sorry). With a sigh of resignation, I handed over my wish lists. Scarves, s’il vous plaît.

  In Avignon, an ancient walled city, the Birkins were as well fortified as the city perimeter. (Scarves, scarves, scarves…I was getting sick of scarves.) Down but not out, I bravely soldiered on to Marseille, second in population only to Paris. Shiploads of cargo arrived daily in this massive port city; surely some barge held a Birkin. I walked into their Hermès store full of vim and vigor. This store visit marked another milestone: the first time I left a store angry. I asked a kind-looking older saleswoman for help immediately after I entered the store. Upon hearing the word “Birkin,” another saleswoman came (or, more accurately, stormed) over. This woman was not so kind looking—in fact, Leona Helmsley sprang to mind. My original saleswoman immediately evacuated (no dummy, she). When I repeated my request to this presumably self-appointed guardian of the Birkingdom, her expression became so suspicious and snide I wondered if I’d accidentally said “Fendi Baguette,” not “Birkin.”

  “Sir, that waiting list is closed.” She managed to fit a lot of loathing into six words. What I couldn’t figure out is why she hated me so much. I mean, I was in Hermès, right? It wasn’t as if I’d ordered a Big Mac at Burger King. They did sell Birkins, after all, didn’t they? (I was beginning to wonder…maybe a Birkin was like a phoenix or a unicorn…you heard about them, but you never saw one.) Imaginary bag or not, I didn’t deserve this kind of treatment asking for an Hermès handbag at an Hermès store. After days of canvassing the French countryside, I hadn’t come this far to be condescended to by a homely woman in a company-issue scarf.

  “What do you mean the waiting list is closed? It’s a waiting list. So I can’t wait? You’re telling me I can’t wait?! This isn’t a restaurant, it’s not like you’re gonna stop serving. I am in Hermès, right? You do make something called the Birkin, right? Oh, wait a minute, I get it…you make them, you just don’t sell them…that makes perfect sense. Hey, I have an idea, why don’t you charge people to get on the waiting list? Oh that’s right, the waiting list is closed.” I let out a full month’s worth of fruitless-Birkin-hunting frustration on this miserable woman. I didn’t regret it, especially when all the other employees looked ready to circle around and applaud.

  “Sir, if you don’t stop yelling I will be forced to ask you to leave.” Her tone was smugly triumphant. I could tell she loved nothing more than forcing her customers out the door.

  “First off, I wasn’t yelling, and I don’t appreciate your insinuation that I was. Second of all, I was working nicely with another saleswoman before you decided to storm the beaches at Normandy and drive her off…may I please be excused to talk with her about some scarves I’m interested in? Or do you guys not have scarves, either?” My voice dripped with sarcasm. At my last sally about the scarves, she turned on her heel and marched off. My original saleswoman, you ask? Well, she couldn’t get me a Birkin either, but she treated me like a hero for the rest of the afternoon.

  Ten days later, in Milan, I wasn’t experiencing anything that resembled frustration. No, I hadn’t fulfilled my Birkin destiny—not in St. Tropez, not in Cannes, not in Monte Carlo. But as I sat in Boeucc, a restaurant more than three hundred years old, idly sipping my Amarone and nibbling on my fettuccine with truffles, it was impossible to be unhappy. Let’s be honest, touring the south of France wasn’t exactly torturous, even if you couldn’t find the handbag you wanted. I decided I’d make one last-ditch effort at the local Hermès store the next day, but held no great hopes. I had to revise my original percentages: for my trip to be viewed as a rousing success, I should have projected 75 percent pleasure, 25 percent business. This was owing to a distinct lack of Birkins in their native France—someone should put them on the endangered list, and quick, before they had to be mated in captivity. On the bright side, the scarf population was flourishing; they were a scrappy little species. (At least I knew my wish-list clients would be pleased with my vacation—my trunk was full of scarves.) But, however content I was at the moment, some small part of me couldn’t stop obsessing over my failure. Was Grace right—was I destined to live Birkinless forever? I pondered purses—and possible plans—as I savored my panna cotta.

  What happened next reminded me of the Christmas the year I was eight. I had become suspicious that Santa wasn’t some guy in a red suit (come on, that’s a lot of presents to fit in a sleigh). My parents took drastic measures. On Christmas Eve, my father, against my mother’s better judgment, actually climbed onto our roof to make enough noise to re-convince an eight-year-old of the reality of Saint Nick. It was that feeling—the exact feeling I had lying in my bed, hearing reindeer scramble on the eaves—that surged through me in Milan that night. It had appeared out of thin air—on the arm of an elegant woman who walked by my table—a Birkin bag (I recognized it from photographs). I immediately believed in them again. I wondered—Who was this woman? What did she know that I didn’t? Did she actually wait two years for a handbag? And on the heels of these questions came a solution so simple I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it already. I’d ask Santa for one—I bet he didn’t have to bother with waiting lists.

  12

  Orange You Glad You Asked?

  I returned from vacation late on Saturday night, to an in-box crammed full of e-mails. I had lots of scarves to ship, and I’d be making more than one trip to the correos on Monday. Wait till all those Hermès-happy people get a l
oad of my new listings. I also had a blinking answering machine light, with a message from Juan, reminding me about our date for tomorrow. He dropped a bit of a bomb on the message: instead of our typical Sunday brunch together, it was to be a Sunday lunch at his parents’ home in a suburb of Barcelona. Oh boy, meeting the parents. Big step, although it did seem a natural thing, given our accelerated courting—I had seen Juan almost every day since we had met, other than when I had been out of town. So even though I really shouldn’t be doing anything tomorrow but starting the process of unloading my scarf merchandise, I wasn’t going to let my Birkin aspirations get in the way of my burgeoning romance. Plus, I was eager to tell him about my…well…failure, I guess. But that’s okay, I knew he was a good listener. It already seemed as if I had known him forever.

  I still did feel somewhat nervous, though, waiting next to Juan outside his parents’ apartment door, after he had rung the bell. How could I charm them when neither of them spoke a word of English? What if they didn’t like me because I didn’t speak their language? What if they just didn’t like me, period? I knew how important they were to Juan. He must have seen some of these anxious thoughts on my face, because he managed to give my hand a reassuring squeeze before the door swung open. I knew he liked me, at least for now.

  I couldn’t have been sillier, in retrospect. Juan’s parents were the embodiment of hospitality, and somehow their personality came crashing right through that language barrier between us. His dad, Juan Sr., was clearly the comedian in the family, and managed to tell his stories and make his little asides in such a way that between his gestures and Juan’s quick translations, I was laughing through most of the meal. Carmen, his mom, was the epitome of a gentle soul, always shaking a smiling head at her outgoing husband. She was a gracious and attentive hostess, and an unbelievable cook in the bargain. We ate like kings, starting with native cheeses served with Spanish ham, or jamón. The expensive jamón Carmen served was made from black pigs that are raised on a diet of only acorns, which results in a particularly sweet and nutty-flavored meat. Then we had white asparagus with homemade alioli and baby artichokes—and this wasn’t even the main course. For that, Carmen had made her special paella, called mar y montana, or “the sea and the mountains.” This was made with rabbit, wild mushrooms, tiny clams, shrimp, langoustines, and assorted vegetables. Dessert was fresh sliced pineapple and homemade coca—a sweet flatbread topped with toasted pine nuts. All these delicious courses were accompanied by Juan Sr.’s one culinary accomplishment: cava sangria. He took a bottle of the best local champagne, added apples, oranges, lemons, and peaches, and more than a splash of Grand Marnier. After eating all that food and drinking my share of the sangria, I was more than relaxed at the end of the meal—I was nearly comatose. Apparently, in Juan’s family, you had Thanksgiving dinner every Sunday afternoon, which seemed like a great idea to me. But we had a train to catch back to the city, so instead of some sleepy sofa-time, I got hugged and kissed and told to come back soon, and we made our exit. As we headed across the square in front of their apartment building, Juan suddenly stopped, turned around, and pulled my sleeve to do the same. When I did, I saw why we had paused—both his parents stood on their apartment balcony. We waved, they waved back, and Juan said, “They always watch me leave, so I wave to make them happy.” Although he seemed almost embarrassed to admit this, I couldn’t think of anything I had seen him do that had made me like him more. And I found out something else that day too—trains are great for napping.

  My romance on track, Monday morning I was back in the thick of it, first dealing with Grace’s correspondence.

  From: GraceoftheGarden@yahoo.com

  Subject: Welcome home/Your trip

  To: Armoire_Auctions@yahoo.com

  Michael, I hope your trip was successful. So, is your backseat full of Birkins? Teehee.

  Any new scarf treasures? Oppressively hot here in Manhattan…I may be heading off to Montauk later in the week. Grace

  Yeah, teehee.

  From: “Michael”

  To: “GraceoftheGarden”

  grace, trip was a major success on a culinary level (haha), however a total birkin bust, although I did manage to actually see one at a restaurant (but the woman who owned it had no interest in selling). tons of great new scarves which I’ll list tomorrow on five day auction (to end on sunday). mt

  From: GraceoftheGarden@yahoo.com

  To: Armoire_Auctions@yahoo.com

  Michael, Did you at least get on some waiting lists? They say good bags come to those who wait! Grace

  From: “Michael”

  To: “GraceoftheGarden”

  I’m on waiting lists all over the south of france, except for Marseille (their waiting list is closed, remind me to tell you that story later.) mt

  Grace and I had decided to make our relationship unique. When I said I’d “tell” her the Marseille story later, I actually meant that I’d e-mail her. We had agreed to only communicate by e-mail or fax. No phone time. No face time. I thought it odd when Grace first suggested it, but now I totally understood. It was like having a pen pal, only better, because it was moments between “letters,” not months.

  From: GraceoftheGarden@yahoo.com

  To: Armoire_Auctions@yahoo.com

  Michael, Lots of “chatter” on the boards about Carnaval de Venise scarf (especially in the black colorway). Suggest you add this to your wish-lists…could be the next Kachinas. Grace

  “The boards” referred to three or four Yahoo chat rooms, all devoted entirely to Hermès scarves (or HS, as those in the know called them). Grace, obviously, was one of their frequent visitors/contributors, and anytime she passed on a tip from them, I got out my scarf-shopping sneakers, and fast. (If you were dedicated enough to sit around and cyber-chat about rare “HS” all day, you were definitely dedicated enough to spend the money on them.)

  From: “Michael”

  To: “GraceoftheGarden”

  Thanks for the tip…a-shopping I will go! mt

  I learned from experience that calling around didn’t cut it when it came to older scarf designs. It was inevitable—I’d call, and get some salesperson Hermès had just hired about three days ago, who had only skimmed the scarf chapter in the employee handbook. But if I went there in person, I could talk to the “scarf ambassador.” (Yes, I think that’s really what they are called, and every Hermès has one.) Now, the “scarf ambassador” knows not only what scarves are in the glass case at the front of the store, but also what scarves are under the display, hidden in the wooden drawers. Generally, I was after the latter—that’s where the older designs were stashed.

  Armed with this breaking news from Grace, I planned a weekend outing to Madrid. (I’d already seen to it that Barcelona’s drawers were so empty they rattled.) That Saturday morning I walked into Hermès Madrid and was greeted by name. I whipped out my wish lists.

  I immediately hit pay dirt on the Carnaval de Venise—the “ambassador” said she was positive they had it in several colors. That wasn’t all she had either, and soon there were ten or so primo scarves stacked by the register. Emboldened by my success, and my VIP status at the store, I went for it.

  “This is great, thanks so much, I’ll take all these…Oh, and if I could, a scarf book to go with each…Yes, one in each of the boxes is fine…oh…and one more thing…do you have a Birkin?” I tried to sound casual.

  “Let me look.” With that she disappeared into the back. I couldn’t believe it. This was the first time someone didn’t immediately say no or bring up the waiting list. Could it really be? I concentrated on not staring at the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. But then, at the edge of my peripheral vision, came a flash of orange. The saleswoman had reemerged, and was barely visible behind the enormous, traffic-cone-colored box in her arms. It looked about two feet square, and my mouth went
dry at the thought of what it contained. She gestured me over to join her at one of the many little island counters every Hermès store has.

  “Mr. Tonello, I have one if you are interested. It’s an anthracite 35cm crocodile Birkin. Shall we take a look at it?” Um, yes. I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  She opened a drawer in the counter, and donned a pair of spotless white cotton gloves. She removed the lid, and placed it gingerly beside the box. Under the lid were four layers of white tissue, tissue so stiff it looked starched (I’d later learn Hermès had their tissue custom-made, to ensure that it was acid-free). She carefully negotiated the barriers of white, draping them in such a manner that each sheet lay perfectly suspended over the edge of a corresponding cardboard wall—north, south, east, west. Then, with utmost care (like picking up a newborn from a bassinet), she lifted out the Birkin and placed it in front of my wondering eyes. It was still hidden, though, snug inside a dun-colored dustcover. She unlaced the drawstring, and peeled back the cloth. (I almost expected them to pipe in some burlesque music.) Once she had unveiled it, I couldn’t stop gawking, although I don’t think I was that obvious. The charcoal-gray (I guess that’s what “anthracite” meant) crocodile bag gleamed richly. She kept talking.

  “As you can see, the hardware is palladium. I think this juxtaposes nicely with the warmer-looking charcoal.” With that, she picked up the bag and stepped out from behind the case. She crossed in front of me to use the mirror on the opposing wall. Holding the bag down at her side, she pivoted back and forth slowly in her four-inch heels, so that the bag swayed slightly by her knee. Her expression, visible in the mirror, was that of someone sharing a delightful secret. After a moment of this, she extended her arm, the bag’s handles resting gently atop her two fingers—clearly offering me a chance to hold it myself. My initial thought was how light it was—I guess they didn’t charge by the pound. My second thought was whatever this purse cost, it was going home with me.