Inevitably, my reverie and revelry on Capri came to an end, and I miserably packed on my eighth morning, vowing to come back as soon as possible. I sent my luggage down the hill with another transport team of one, but decided to carry the two Hermès shopping bags myself. Better safe than sorry. As I walked the Via Tragara for one last time that week, my mind was on nothing at all but the journey ahead of me, and the week behind me. I hit the outskirts of town, hardly breaking stride. Then, as I rounded the last curve into the white-awninged boutique runway, I spotted a familiar face that had no place in my farewell moments. It was, improbably as could be, the salesman from the Naples Hermès, standing under the awning of the Capri Hermès, languidly smoking a cigarette. Huh? I did recover quickly, though, realizing that he must cover the Capri saleswoman’s day off, or something to that effect. And here I was, strolling by bold as a rooster, with two giant Hermès bags. It must be said that the size of the bag I had was a dead giveaway—you really only got the giganta-version for Birkins or Kellys. Plus, I had implied strongly I was en route to Florida, with the birthday Birkin for Mom. I was potentially screwed, so I moved fast. Ducking behind a fragrant bush, I stood there sweating and waiting for his eventual retreat into the storefront. I also stacked the bags atop each other best I could, figuring I could carry both on the far side of me as I passed the windows of the store. I couldn’t do too much else, except muss my hair a bit and wait for a cluster of people to walk by. Which they did, eventually, long after he had stepped back into his cool, leather-scented cave. I alternately hustled and loitered as I passed the storefronts, trying to keep pace with a window-shopping quartet of British women (no easy task). Apparently, I was successful, because I wasn’t halted in my Hermès tracks—not then and not for a long time after, either.
I stood on the ferry, watching the island retreat, feeling then as I always do at such moments—that I was in a movie of my own making, a maudlin scene of which I was the only participant and the only onlooker. The view was legitimately cinematic this time; Capri was nothing if not that. I couldn’t help but trace the rises and falls of the landscape with my eyes, willing my mind to capture its every nuance for time immemorial. It had restored me, this place, and I knew that, whatever story my blood test next week would tell. My body had echoed the vitality of the island, I could tell that much without a physician. I could sense it, in my color, my energy, my pulse, myself. Me as me, full-out me again, not a wan or sickly me. The crocodile bag it had yielded paled in comparison to that…no pun intended.
27
The Italian Way
I did finally figure out what I was doing “wrong” in Italy, after a few more months of largely unsuccessful Birkin voyages to that country. It all became clear to me after one particular journey to the shop in Rome, and sure enough, once I got the clue there, everything changed for me in Italy, Hermès-wise. I spent two months flying there for three or four days at a shot, and coming back with six or so Birkins each time. Success at last. Of all people, the person I was most excited to tell about my “breakthrough” was my young Italian hairdresser, Simonetta.
For my last haircut, I had been forced to use another of Toni & Guy’s salon employees, because Simonetta was on vacation. July was her holiday month, and she had gone home to Sardinia. The haircut had been fine, but you know how it is with hairdressers—you want yours, and only yours. Plus, Simonetta was so great, with her long black hair, sultry little body, and hip Italian wardrobe. She and her (also Italian) boyfriend, Piergiacomo, a pastry chef at a five-star hotel in Barcelona, had moved to Spain a couple of years earlier from London, where Simonetta had been working for that branch of Toni & Guy. Juan and I had actually met them for a dinner out on a few occasions, loving their sexy accents and cool-as-can-be clothes. Oh, and they were supernice too.
Simonetta was fascinated by my lifestyle, and always asked lots of questions, especially while she snipped away at my hair. Our conversations at the salon always went more or less like this:
SIMONETTA: “Michael, are you still getting lots of Beerkens?”
MICHAEL: “Yes, I still am.”
SIMONETTA: “Only in Paris? I love Paris.”
MICHAEL: “No, I buy Birkins all over the place.”
SIMONETTA: “In Italy? You buy Beerkens in Italy a lot?”
MICHAEL: “No, not too much…only once in a while.”
SIMONETTA: “Aaaaah.”
This time, reunited at last, my head in the shampoo sink, her capable fingers kneading my scalp, I changed the script. When she asked about Italy, I told her that I went to Italy all the time for Birkins.
“You do…really? For Beerkens? All the time? That is new, no?” Her voice was incredulous.
“Well, yeah…it’s new.”
“You must tell me,” she said, leading the way to her chair and then rooting around in the drawer for the tools of her trade.
“Do you want the long version or the short version?” I asked with a smile. She smiled back, scissors cocked in her fist.
“I want the forty-five-meenute version, sweetie.”
I explained my long history with getting Birkins—or, I should say, trying to get Birkins—at Hermès stores in Italy. It was very hit or miss, and when it came to crocodile, forget it. It never seemed to matter how much I spent in a store in Italy, they never produced a crocodile bag for me (except at the rather inconvenient and highly seasonal Capri store, naturally). Oftentimes I got no Birkin at all. Once during this “dark era” I even bought twelve Hermès scarves in one shop in hopes of getting a crocodile Birkin, but nothing materialized…except the scarves. Throughout my story, Simonetta said “mmmmm” and “dio mio!” in all the right places, but I got the distinct feeling that my story was unsurprising to her. I continued with my tale anyway, and caught her eye in the mirror to signify the juicy part was coming.
“Well, Simonetta, it all changed last month when I went to Rome for what I had decided might be my last shot at Italian Birkin-buying. I dressed for success, wearing lots of Hermès—I’ve told you all about that. I picked out some scarves, some jewelry, a shawl, and even a pair of khaki pants for myself, which I never do, I never buy their clothing. But I wasn’t holding back, it was all or nothing this time. My pile totaled about $3,000…and then I popped the Birkin question to the salesman I had been working with. This is when it started getting really interesting.” I glanced in the mirror again at Simonetta, and I could tell she was listening intently now that things were rolling.
“He shook his head slowly, brow furrowed, but then, like he had made some decision, pulled out his business card, scribbled a number on the back, and handed it to me, telling me I should call him later that evening on his cell phone. I thought this was really weird, especially since he was wearing a wedding ring. But I completed my purchase, just curious enough to go through with it even though I didn’t get a Birkin, and left the store with the business card in my wallet.”
“No Beerken, then, but he give you number? You call number, though, right?”
“Yes, yes, I was just getting to that. That evening, about nine, I dialed the number on the back of the card. I explained who I was and that I was calling about getting a Birkin. It was definitely the same guy I had met, I could tell by his voice. He then shocked me by asking if I ‘only wanted one Birkin, or more than one?’ I told him that I would love two, so that I could give them to my mother and sister as presents.”
Simonetta cocked an eyebrow at this, and I shrugged.
“I have to tell them something, it’s not like they think the bags are for me.”
She motioned for me to go on.
“He then started talking about the two-year waiting list and the demand in Italy for these bags, blah blah blah…and how he could only do favors for very special customers.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Simonetta’s mouth quirk to the side.
“I quickly caught on to where this was heading, so I told him that I would take care of him, as a good customer woul
d. I was told to return to the shop tomorrow and ask for a Birkin again. When I got to the store, I spotted ‘my guy’ and headed off in his direction. We said our hellos, and then I asked him if it were possible to get a Birkin for my mom, and one for my sister. He left and returned with two Birkins for me, one leather and one crocodile. I naturally took both.”
“Crocodile? Those are good for you, yes?” Simonetta looked serious again.
“Good, yes, very good. So, then when I got back to the hotel and opened the boxes I discovered his business card, with an address on the back written in pen, and the number 200 written in one corner. In tiny script in the opposite corner were also the words ‘American dollars, please.’ I wondered if that was the ‘total due’ or price per bag, but to be on the safe side I wrapped $400 in hotel stationery, and mailed it off to him. Two weeks later I phoned my new Rome Hermès salesperson and was invited to come in for another Birkin at my convenience. And since then, Simonetta, I can get a crocodile Birkin at a lot of Hermès stores in Italy. A lot of them. I go there all the time, like I said.” I finished, proud of myself.
Simonetta finished cutting my hair and paused for a moment, so quiet and still I knew to stay silent and wait.
“Michael, it is very simple, not complicated, I knew all along why you didn’t get Beerken in Italy. But now you will have no problems.” She paused again. Standing directly behind me, she put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me in the mirror, her brown eyes staring right into my brown eyes, and said, “Now you know the Italian way.” She held my gaze, solemn, and then laughed a little at herself, but mostly at me, and the dawning comprehension on my face as her words sunk in. She had known all along. And she hadn’t said a word. I did sort of wish she had mentioned it to me, before, and saved me some time and energy. But, she did give a hell of a haircut, so I forgave her (eventually).
ADDENDUM TO STORE EMPLOYEE ROSTER
The Godfather
GENDER: high-testosterone male
SEXUAL PREFERENCE: yes
AGE: 25+
HAIR: slicked back, highly gelled
TEETH: possibly one is gold or has a diamond in it
MOTTO: “We can’t really talk about this here”
PERCENTAGE IN HERMÈS CAPTIVITY: 5%
LIKELIHOOD OF BIRKIN PURCHASE: absolutely!
PREVIOUS JOB: “waste management,” broker, maître d’
THE LOWDOWN: this employee has it all figured out and is essentially running his own business. There is no need to even bother with “the formula”; it’s as simple as sending some money (aka payola) to this person’s home
APPROACH: if offered a business card with a home or cell phone number written on the back, then you know that he is on the take.
28
In Hermès We Trust, Aston We Shall Receive
Sleepily seated at my “desk” (formerly known as my kitchen table) one workaday morning, I scanned some chitchatty e-mails from friends and popped over to my eBay account to check on my pending listings. Six “auction closed” notices? I almost choked—wasn’t expecting anything that dramatic this early. Maybe on a Monday morning, since Sunday was still my customary end-of-auction day. But today was definitely a Tuesday. That meant all six must have ended in a “Buy It Now,” which was an odd coincidence, at best. A little leery, I quickly checked the buyer info on each auction. My heart sank as I kept reading the same user ID over and over. Bad doings.
This kind of thing almost inevitably spelled trouble, or had in the past. In its infinite democracy, eBay attracts all sorts of people, some of whom are fictitious. In other words, occasionally the user who “buys” an item is nothing but a recently invented screen name, and about as real as Ebenezer Scrooge (and even less likely to part with money). It was like this bizarre adult online version of “ding-dong ditch.” Except instead of running away with peals of adolescent laughter when I answered the virtual door, they merely vanished off the doorstep. Um, can someone please tell me why that would be fun? But, in any case, a new-to-me user who casually dropped four grand overnight on Hermès odds and ends aroused my immediate suspicion.
Now, the only way to validate the buying power of FightingBulldogMom was by scoping out her feedback. Minutes later, I was still scrolling through the five-hundred-plus comments and purchases listed under her user ID. Oh, she was real all right, and by the looks of it, I had nothing to worry about. FightingBulldogMom, aka Ellen Yeats, really loved bracelet charms, devotional books by some guy named Phillips Brooks, and, more important, anything and everything with the Hermès logo. I had a visual of a woman, wrists wreathed in silver and gold, praising the heavens, surrounded by a sea of orange Hermès boxes. Presumably in some sprawling mansion decorated with bulldog paraphernalia. Hey, if I had her kind of money, I’d be thanking God too. I had nothing to fight about with this particular bulldog mom. High time to drop her a line.
From: “michael”
To: [email protected]
Ellen,
thanks for your purchases! upon receipt of your payment, I will be shipping the items by registered insured mail. please note that I keep wish lists for clients, so if there is anything Hermès you are specifically looking for, let me know. best regards from Barcelona,
michael
From: “Ellen Yeats”
To: “Michael”
Michael—
I have such fond memories of Barcelona. The food, the people, the architecture—it’s all so lovely. As you must know already—I am sure you adore it there.
The shipping arrangements sound fine, and I will process everything on my end through my PayPal account. I will also ponder my wish list.
Best,
Ellen
Ah, lovely—shades of Grace, for sure. I couldn’t wait to see Ellen’s wish list, although I wondered what she might still need after all the Hermès purchases on her feedback. But as I would learn again and again, it wasn’t a matter of need, it was a matter of want. And Ellen still wanted plenty.
Well, ask and ye shall receive, at least most of the time; over the next eight months, Ellen became a committed client of mine. I learned she lived chiefly in Wareham, Massachusetts, a Cape Cod town a stone’s throw from Osterville, where I had spent my early years. So we were neighbors, in a rather convoluted, non-time-zone-sharing way. Although we never spoke on the phone (more shades of Grace), we had a thoroughly pleasant online rapport. Well, maybe pleasant is too lukewarm a description, since at this point she was spending several thousand dollars a month buying Hermès goodies from me. I liked Ellen, I liked her a lot. She liked me, and she liked Hermès a lot. Our friendship was symbiotic, but sincere nonetheless.
I found out she was a highly successful attorney, with two grown children, neither of whom lived nearby. Her recently jettisoned marriage had been to the CEO of a company that ranked among the top twenty on the Fortune 500—a man who might know business but was clueless in every other imaginable way. This asshole had been busy playing footsie underneath Ellen’s presumably lovely dining room table—set with Hermès candlesticks and Wedgwood china—with none other than her very best friend. I respected her utterly for not putting up with that bullshit, and dumping his cheating ass out on the curb where it belonged. Things were equally emotive on my end of our correspondence. I told her all about Juan and my newly acquired and sometimes temperamental Bengal kitty, the ups and downs of being an expatriate, the nuances of my newly formed coupledom. Another virtual, and virtually flawless, correspondence had been formed.
When it came time for one of my periodic pilgrimages to the States, starting off with a couple nights at Kate’s in Ptown and ending at my parents’ house in Florida, I offhandedly mentioned my plans in an e-mail. Her response made me do a double take.
From: “Ellen Yeats”
To: “Michael”
Michael—
I actually have someth
ing of a proposition for you, one that doesn’t involve eBay or Hermès (believe it or not). I will soon be heading down to Florida, where I winter at my home in Palm Beach. I had been planning to ship my car, but I had a brainstorm when I saw your US travel plans end at your parents’ place in Florida. Would you consider a road trip down South instead of a flight, and drive my car down for me? And since it is only September, the weather will likely be nice. I will understand if not, but I figured there was no harm in asking. Let me know one way or another, and then I can plan accordingly.
blessings,
ey
I couldn’t believe this woman would hand over the keys to her car to someone she couldn’t pick out of a lineup. Kind of taking a chance, don’tcha think? But since I knew I wasn’t a criminal, there was really no reason to refuse. Save the airfare, make points with a great client and friend, and further loosen up my already laissez-faire travel itinerary—win-win all the way for yours truly. I tapped out my affirmative reply posthaste.
Bringing Home the Birkin Page 17
