Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  When the doorbell buzzed downstairs on that long-awaited afternoon, announcing their arrival, I was as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning. Juan and I both went down to the lobby to help with their luggage, and I enthusiastically hugged them both and then introduced them to Juan, who was awkwardly standing a little apart. My dad shook his hand, formal for once, and then my mother grabbed my boyfriend into a big hug. They had some small whispered exchange during the embrace, and both emerged slightly wet-eyed and bashful; but after that, you could barely get them away from each other. They sat next to each other on the couch all afternoon, giggling and chatting, and Juan won her over even further by always remembering to serve her beer to her in a frosty cold mug (you had to give her a new one with each new beer too…it was quite a process, and I was glad Juan had taken charge of it). So, she was obviously smitten. My father pretty much always followed her lead, and this day was no exception; once he started talking to Juan about the Red Sox and how the two of us would have to visit the States next summer so we could all catch a game together, I knew Juan was already part of the family. Later that night, after dinner at the apartment, my parents crashed early, worn out from their flight, and I asked Juan what he and my mother had said to each other in the lobby. He tried to act innocent, but I wasn’t buying it.

  “Come on, I know you said something…I saw the whole thing, you both said something, come on, just tell me…” I had to know.

  “All right, all right…fine. Well, first she thanked me for making you so happy…”

  “Oh, so sweet…and what did you say?”

  “If you have to know…and I know you do, Mikey, you always have to know everything”—he rolled his eyes a little, but smiled too—“then I thanked her, for making you, well, you.” He looked down at his feet as he spoke this last, and I was glad he did, because now I was the one with wet eyes to hide.

  I spent the next ten days playing tour guide, with the aid of Juan’s insider tips. With a true local’s touch, he crafted us daily itineraries that had a good blend of relaxation and sightseeing. Instead of being footsore and tired at the end of each day, as many tourists are, my parents and I were really able to enjoy the city. For example, a strenuous late-morning hike up to Park Güell (Gaudí’s masterpiece of public space set high on a hill) ended with us sitting around for a couple of hours at the café at the top, enjoying our lunch while overlooking the city. At night, we would go to one or another of Juan’s and my favorite haunts, or I would cook for us. Sunday, of course, brought us all to Juan’s parents’ house, and by the time we left there, the two older couples had started planning a trip to Seville for the following winter. (It was amazing how people who didn’t even speak the same language could get that far in a single afternoon, but I guess there really is an international language—it’s called cava sangria.) Overall, I was pleased to see how much they loved “my” city, and I loved showing them the best of it. We even took a side trip to Sitges, a coastal town about thirty minutes out of Barcelona by train. We spent a lazy day on the beach there, did a little shopping, and got personalized service at Al Fresco, an extraordinarily good restaurant where I was well acquainted with the owners, a husband-and-wife team. My mom got a real kick out of it when the wife/chef came out of the kitchen to chat, and laughed even more when she discovered the two of them shared their first name—Marilyn. After the restaurant closed, Marilyn and her husband, Xavi, could both abandon their posts (while she cooked, he served as both sommelier and maître d’) and they joined us for some wine and conversation. Once my parents and I finally got ready to leave a couple of bottles of red later, the two women were fast friends, and couldn’t get enough of saying “Bye, Marilyn!” and “Nice meeting you, Marilyn,” amusing themselves—and my father—ad infinitum. As I dragged my parents out the restaurant door, I concluded that Sitges, and Al Fresco, were definitely a hit.

  Of course, the ten days went much too fast, and I was slightly forlorn when it came time to say good-bye. Packed and suntanned, the two of them sat in my living room for the last time that week, waiting for the cabdriver to arrive and start them on their journey home. They both told me a dozen times to thank Juan again for them when he got home from work, and then we sat there in silence for a moment, all a little lost in thought.

  “Well, Mike, it certainly has been a great trip. Nice place to live, I’ll give you that.” My dad leaned forward as he spoke, and patted me on my knee, smiling. I could tell he was happy for me.

  “I’d say it’s better than nice, John, really. Much better than nice. It’s wonderful, is what it is. What a life you and Juan have.” She smiled as she spoke, but her voice sounded emotional. I knew it was hard on her sometimes, me living so far away, but finally I knew my mom was happy for me too. I started to say something, probably something sentimental, but just then the cabdriver buzzed the downstairs bell. I walked them down to the lobby, where I let my fierce hugs do the talking. Maybe, on second thought, there are a few international languages.

  I sort of slumped around for the weekend, feeling homesick for the first time in ages, but once Monday rolled around, I had to collect myself. My parents’ visit, great as it was, was now only a very fond memory. It was time to put my nose back to the Hermès (presumably, gold-plated) grindstone. After all, work was definitely going well, well enough that I had taken almost two weeks off, no problem. So I decided, in my overly confident state, that it was time to go for the Hermès jugular—I was going to breach the walls of the Faubourg flagship fortress.

  If there was a secret Birkin bunker anywhere, this was the store. It was enormous, an imposing multistoried limestone building. (I had tried to figure out which floors held what while lurking inconspicuously on the sidewalk on my last trip, feeling like a fifteen-year-old casing a theater that showed X-rated movies.) I knew not all the floors were devoted to merchandise (and I assumed there was at least one floor devoted to housing the Oompa-Loompas). Well, I’d soon find out, I guess. I booked a plane ticket for the upcoming weekend, and dropped Grace an e-mail, maybe hoping for some last-minute advice.

  From: “Michael”

  To: “GraceoftheGarden”

  hi grace, i’m off to paris this coming sunday to work “the formula” at Hermès faubourg (and the other two shops too!) my guess is that if the smaller shops have birkins then the faubourg must be like federal reserve birkin bank. any thoughts or suggestions or do you have the name of a salesperson there? michael

  From: “GraceoftheGarden”

  To: “Michael”

  Michael, in days gone by (too many to even remember) I had a wonderful salesperson at the Faubourg whom I’m not certain would still be working there nor do I remember her name. You seem to have a high batting average so I’d stick with your formula. Any plans to attend the Hermès vintage auction while you are in Paris? I assume you planned this trip around the auction? You might also consider paying a visit to some dépôt-ventes (French consignment stores) for some older scarves. Just a random thought. Grace

  Fuck Heloise, I’d take Hints From Grace over her tired tips any day of the week. Come on, anyone can tell you how to get a stain out of an Hermès scarf, but it is a rare woman that can tell you where that scarf was made, when it was made, and what it is worth. She never ceased to amaze me with her expertise. A lot of the time, the house of Hermès felt like one of those giant Birkin boxes, with never-ending layers of tissue you had to sift through to get to the goods. I was sure glad I had Grace on hand to help me dig.

  From: “Michael”

  To: “GraceoftheGarden”

  grace, first off, what Hermès vintage auction? more info s’il vous plaît. i DO of course know of the depot-ventes but never actually thought of them as a source for Hermès scarves…do you really think it’s worthwhile? m~

  From: “GraceoftheGarden” Garden@yahoo.com>

  To: “Michael”

  Michael, Artcurial—one of the large Paris auction houses—has a 2-day Hermès vintage auction which is this week. The auction (600+ lots) draws hundreds of collectors and resellers from the world over. I can assure you that there will be numerous unusual and rare items there—which is exactly why the Hermès museum curator is often in attendance (oddly enough, they are famously cheap.)

  Bidding can be fierce among the serious collectors, and last year several highly sought-after scarves sold in excess of $700. If nothing else, it will be a good learning experience (take notes!) How lucky your timing is!

  As for the depot-ventes, yes, they always have a selection of Hermès scarves although you must be careful regarding condition (lipstick, pulls, etc) but keep in mind that you can bargain at a depot-vente. Grace

  It looked like I had more than my Faubourg fish to fry while in France: Hermès-hunting at an auction, courtesy of my fortuitous timing, plus the dépôts-ventes sounded like scarf heaven. Thank God I was in peak packing form to meet the challenges of Paris. With all the past month’s clothing rearranging, I was confident I could now fold a scarf (or anything else) smaller than any Hermès (or even Gap) employee could. I hoped this peculiar ability—and my already formidable skills in the art of suitcase stuffing—would prove handy for my return flight. I wanted to be bringing back to Barcelona a jumbo that would be so heavy with Hermès merchandise that the airline reps would crack “dead body” jokes.

  That next Sunday was a drizzly and chilly early-spring day, not the soft-aired example of “April in Paris” I had longed for, but I was still content to be there, gawking out the cab window. I love Paris. I love every silly tourist trap that the city has to offer. I love the monuments that inspire the souvenir stands: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Notre Dame cathedral. I love the clichèd “only in Paris” experiences—drinking wine in the sidewalk cafés, riding in the bateaux mouches that operate on the Seine, buying crêpes instead of hot dogs from sidewalk vendors. I pretend to be worldly sometimes, and often succeed, but something about Paris makes me want to buy crappy T-shirts with Mona Lisa on them, and key chains in the shape of Jim Morrison’s gravestone. In short, Paris makes me stupidly happy.

  I was hoping that I could overcome my giddiness long enough to appear as blasé as a typical Birkin-buying millionaire. Maybe I should have donned a blindfold right at Charles de Gaulle, as soon as I got in the cab, and ridden to the store first thing. God knows I was always world-weary when I got off a plane, and cranky, and starving, which would make me an Hermès customer prototype. But on second thought, I probably couldn’t lug in the suitcase. Kinda tacky. Good thing I had told the cabbie to drive me to the Hotel Mansart.

  I checked in and prepped for my mission. I always dressed to the nines for these outings, for obvious reasons, and I had agonized about the choice for today, wanting it to be perfect. I had finally packed Jil Sander charcoal trousers and a dark lime green cashmere turtleneck, with a pair of tabac matte crocodile Bottega Veneta brogues. I had also recently decided that I should always wear a touch of Hermès. The typical choice for men is a tie, but I’m not really a tie guy. And I wasn’t about to wear a scarf. So instead I had decided to keep one of the Birkin-bait items—a man’s chaîne d’ancre bracelet, made of sterling silver, in the très grand modele, which meant it had the largest links possible. I had to admit I liked the heavy weight of it on my wrist, the divided-oval design, and the artistically oversized toggle closure, although I couldn’t imagine how they charged $1,000 for it. Yes, I had bought it, but I had more than its elegance in mind. For me, it was a business expense, so I guess I did have an advertising budget after all. Because, in a way, I was both the author of the advertisement and the advertisement itself. I was selling me, so that they would sell to me. But hey, as long as I didn’t have to sleep with anyone.

  I wanted to be strolling down the street, confidently, but instead I was shivering down the street. So when I got to the corner, instead of going left, toward Hermès, I went right, to Galeries Lafayette. There I could buy my tea, for later, once the hypothermia had set in. My tea was Mariage Frères Earl Grey French Blue, so it wasn’t exactly Lipton, and I knew that store was one of only two places in Paris that sold it. Galeries Lafayette is a kind of outsized French Bloomingdale’s, spread out over three separate buildings, and one building, the Lafayette Maison, is dedicated entirely to housewares. The basement of the Maison is devoted to teas, spices, and coffee, and every imaginable accoutrement thereof. Once there, I tried to justify buying myself a treat—hey, who doesn’t want a 24-karat-gold-plated tea ball?—but in the end bought 300 grams of my tea instead. To celebrate my uncharacteristic self-control, I immediately went across the street to the building that housed the men’s department. The third floor featured mini-boutiques of several designers I liked. Well, I could use a jacket…

  It was made by Dsquared2: chocolate brown leather, form-fitting, with oversized pockets, gusseted sleeves, and a half-belt in the back. It was car-coat length, it was a runway piece, it was…going home with me. I strolled out of there a half hour later, snug against the sprinkling sky in my new purchase, somehow feeling richer, although I definitely was poorer. (I always figured money is neither created nor destroyed when you buy high-end—there was always eBay if circumstances got desperate.) It was a suit of armor, to match my enchanted bracelet, and I was off to rescue the Birkin, cruelly imprisoned in the dungeon. And I was…someone who had seen The Princess Bride too many times. Either way, no more procrastinating, it was time to go to work.

  I walked into the Hermès Faubourg with utmost confidence, at least as far as how I looked. Now, I needed to watch how I acted. I immediately drew some attention from a salesman hovering among the handbags, or, more likely, my jacket did. He came over to my area quite quickly, and I ignored him for a while, taking my time before overtly noticing him, staying just out of the natural range of a hello. I sized him up a little—dishwater-colored hair, slim, well-dressed in an Hermès-regulation outfit, around my height. I perused the bags and finally let him get close enough to greet me.

  “Good afternoon…Are you looking for something special, perhaps?” His near-perfect English was delivered with a French accent so thick it was almost a caricature. I immediately thought of Pepe Le Pew, only this man’s voice lacked that skunk’s suaveness; due to its high register, it almost sounded squeaky. Turning to speak with him, I caught his casual glance at my croc brogues. Money well spent, judging from the appreciative look that sprang into his eyes.

  “Aren’t we all?” I said, smiling. I wasn’t playing any of my cards this early.

  He looked at me, almost oddly serious. “I have something very special to show you…Please wait here, I will be right back with it.” With that, he turned on his heel and then stopped. He turned back to me and said, “My name is Serge.” He then left me alone with the displays of purses. None of which were Birkins, naturally.

  I puttered around, then I meandered around, then I wandered around, and still he wasn’t back. I was about to start lolling around when I saw a bit of an informal salesperson gathering at a glass display, with Serge at its center. He gestured me over. The three saleswomen around him looked nonplussed, as though they had been dragged away from their shifts of shredding the Birkin waiting list in the backroom. That all changed as soon as he pulled a black bag from out of the tissue.

  It sure as hell wasn’t a Birkin. It actually looked like a genetic experiment where a purse and a briefcase were mated, with outstanding results. It was oblong, about 40cm, with three zippered pockets on the sides, a handle situated on the top, and a flap that closed with a Kelly-like clasp. The material of the top, bottom, and sides was black leather, the pockets were toile (canvas), the hardware was palladium, and the overall look was amazing. And it actually looked practical, unlike the burdensome Birkin, which was largely nonutilitarian.

  Now, I didn’t know what t
his bag was, but I realized that the saleswomen clearly did, since they looked like kids on Christmas morning. I didn’t say a word but eavesdropped on their French, which was peppered with “Quelle surprise” and “C’est très beau.” Serge obviously had their attention, and mine. He knew it too—he made a big show of pulling out the two-inch-wide toile-and-leather shoulder strap, and attaching it to the shiny clips. This new addition further cemented the bag’s gender-neutral appearance.

  “You have to try it on,” he insisted, already putting the bag over the top of my arm. He busied himself adjusting the strap so it fell over my shoulder and the bag rested comfortably behind my midsection, its triangular shape molding perfectly to the curve of my back. I peered over my shoulder to peek down at it, and Serge smiled and wordlessly led me to a mirror. Here I turned back and forth, looking at my reflection, until I realized I was preening a little.

  “I haven’t seen this before.” I knew the right thing to say: my rudimentary French had already helped me find out that much.

  “No, you wouldn’t have. This is an incredibly rare bag.” Serge said this with no small amount of pride in his voice. When he paused dramatically, I noticed that we—or, more accurately, the bag—had drawn a crowd. The onlookers were other shoppers, and I saw in their eyes nakedly raw Hermès hunger for the item on my back. I realized also that if I didn’t buy it, this store was going to degenerate into an atmosphere akin to the annual wedding-gown sale at Filene’s Basement. I would have to toss the bag at our spectators, wedding bouquet–style, and run for the door. Serge’s next sentence reinforced this.