Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  I sallied up to the welcome desk in my shawl, presented my invitation, and a tiny, fashionable woman tied a tiny, fashionable piece of Hermès ribbon around my wrist. I stepped onto a carpeted, awning-covered walkway and I had one of those moments of unreality—how the hell was I at this party? But as I spotted the uniformed waiters carrying trays laden with alcohol, I decided that now was not the time for existential angst. Champagne flute in hand, I followed the carpet to a large open-air courtyard. Here, I was dazzled by the Hermès signature over-the-top opulence. Crystal chandeliers, air-kissing employees, lush flower arrangements, a penguin-suited herd of orchestra musicians—and, needless to say, more Hermès handbags than I had heretofore seen in any one place. Virtually every single woman was wearing some style of Hermès bag, with crocodile Kellys out in full force. The purse purchases made just by those present were no doubt what had paid for the expensive drink I was sipping (not to mention everything else visibly expensive in the general vicinity, which is to say the party as a whole). I had no urge to talk to any of these people. I doubted any of them would sell me the handbag off their arm, or I would have been shaking hands and kissing babies all over that courtyard. No Birkins to bag here, so I wandered back up the faux–Academy Awards walkway to the store, where I hoped it was hunting season. Inside the store, it was as packed as Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras, although it wasn’t as fun—no beads in sight. I made it through the crush gawking near the front to discover that many store employees were hovering about, “hosting” the interested guests around the store. My self-appointed store guide was a salesperson (of moderate Nazi persuasion), and as she blabbered on, I eagerly scanned the merchandise. And there it was, glowing bright pink, a croc Birkin sadly imprisoned in a glass display case. Spurred on by my love of freeing beautiful things, I plunged.

  “Oh my God, this bag is stunning, I’ve never seen this color before,” I ventured in a voice I hoped was a velvety blend of wealth and Hermès-inspired awe. The Nazi immediately dropped her voice (as if we were suddenly in a church) and whispered back, “You should come back in the morning and see me, we aren’t allowed to take the bags out or show any items this evening.” Secretly elated, I gave her a casual nod and asked when the store opened in the morning. Now, mission accomplished, I excused myself after a few minutes and returned outside to toss back another glass of Champagne. I took one final survey of the extravagant and, to me, extravagantly silly reception, and then slipped out quietly, having zero interest in socializing with the self-proclaimed “Luxembourg’s finest.”

  The following morning, dressed in one of my “Hermès shopping uniforms,” I was back inside the store seconds after they turned the key and opened the door. My salesperson from last night immediately materialized. I wasted no time before proceeding with the formula.

  “Good morning, nice to see you again. I spoke with my mom last night and told her about the pink bag, and she’s extremely interested. She wants to know if you have anything else in that color from the clothing or accessories collection, because she doesn’t think she has anything to wear with it,” I said, knowing full well that they would have any number of fuchsia items. About a half hour later, I left the store with a fuchsia cashmere shawl, a large sterling silver bracelet, a couple other trinkets, and the bright fuchsia croc Birkin, liberated from captivity once and for all. The profit on that bag paid all the Luxembourg expenses, with several thousand left over.

  Several months later, I heard through the grapevine that Hermès was opening a shop in Athens in a few weeks. Now possessed of a completely different view of Hermès openings, I immediately picked up the phone and called Paris to try and get a phone number for the Athens shop, and with luck finagle an invitation in the process. No such luck. I racked my brain. Suddenly I remembered Katrin, one of my Birkin clients, who lived in Los Angeles and had a summer home in the Greek islands. I phoned her posthaste, hoping she was in California, praying that she had some specific information on the opening.

  “Hi, Katrin, it’s Michael…in Barcelona.”

  “Hi, sweetheart, what a surprise. Are you in Barcelona? Oh, you just said that. I just got home from Paris last night, so I’m a little dopey.” We moved through some pleasant idle chitchat and discussed the new French collections, which she had just returned from seeing. Katrin never missed a single runway show. Usually, I loved talking with her and listening to her prattle on in her thick, sweet French accent. However, today I had an agenda.

  “Katrin, are you going to Athens for the Hermès opening?” I hoped it sounded like I was already going, rather than like I was fishing for an invite.

  “I’m going with Constantine, who is from Greece and is only twenty-three but acts like he’s thirty-five and has more money than Croesus. His father is a real Greek shipping tycoon…” Katrin rambled on and on, giving me every detail of this Constantine character. While I’m sure normally I’d be riveted (yeah, right), instead I was calculating my next question. When she took a breath, I pounced.

  “So where are you staying?” I asked in a tone I hoped was less CIA, more drawing room.

  “Oh, the Grande Bretagne, I always stay there. It’s right near the best shopping and I don’t see any reason not…” she blathered on. Oh, Lord. Why hadn’t I asked when instead of where? Now I suddenly had Rick Steves on the phone. When she was running out of oxygen again, I rolled the dice.

  “I better book soon, or I’m gonna end up in some dump. When is this thing again?” Blissfully unaware of my machinations, Katrin threw me the bone I had been praying for. Since any hopes of an actual invitation had been quashed, I decided to crash the party. I booked a flight and reserved a room at the Grande Bretagne. (Thanks for the tip, Katrin.) I figured what the hell, some Birkin buyer somewhere in this universe was paying, even if they didn’t know it.

  When I arrived into Athens, it was raining, which was kind of a drag. But then I reminded myself I was here for business, not pleasure. Thus resigned, I checked into the hotel and asked the concierge how long it would take to get to the Hermès shop. Much to my surprise, he told me that it was directly behind the hotel, less than a minute’s walk. Fabulous. Armed with a ridiculously giant hotel umbrella, I walked over to check out the windows and see if there were any bags visible. As I rounded the corner behind the hotel, I was immediately confronted with a large orange tent that ran the entire length of the small block. I was accosted with a virtual nuclear explosion of orange: a symphony of orange pillows, orange urns cascading with orange flowers, orange carpets with orange fleurs-de-lis; obviously, some event planner was given a fat budget to really orange it up. I anticipated seeing Champagne flutes with orange juice. There were dozens of people (fortunately, none of them orange) frantically working to get everything in place for this evening, and I tried to remain invisible as I maneuvered my way to the front of the shop and the mammoth plate-glass windows. I could not believe my eyes: I counted four croc Birkins, the highlight of which was a blue roi and a poudre. Then I spotted the mother lode: a black matte lizard Birkin, which is so rare as to be nearly mythological. Oh boy, this was going to be fun!

  I headed back to the hotel to shower and dress. I donned the chalk-colored Prada suit from my Pierre Gagnaire evening with Serge, now properly tailored. This time I paired it with a baby-pink two-ply cashmere turtleneck from Ralph Lauren Purple Label. Now an expert in shawl/chaîne d’ancre interaction, the only adjustment I made to that combo was the shawl color—I went with my new fuchsia one this time. I did one last thing before leaving the hotel room—texted Sarah about possible croc Birkins coming her way. I figured, why not be positive?

  It was forty-five minutes after the appointed time when I finally arrived. Feeling like a character from a bad spy film, I had already tied a small piece of Hermès cloth ribbon around my wrist. Since I knew that this company’s only bit of creativity went directly into their scarf designs, I figured this would again be the “secret handshake.” Their dogged love of tradition would serve as my gilt-edged invitation
. My instincts were right. I seamlessly bypassed the “ribbon table” and slipped right into the party. I armed myself with Champagne and disappeared into the haze of orange festivities.

  Within moments, I spotted Jean Paul Gaultier, the enfant terrible of Paris fashion and the current creative director of Hermès women’s ready-to-wear. With all his white hair in all that Hermès orange, he looked like nothing so much as a Creamsicle, albeit an expensive one. I bet he wasn’t wearing an Hermès ribbon on his wrist. No way to find out, though—sycophants were circled around him like wagon trains at dusk. I scanned the rest of the crowd. I thought I recognized a woman across the room but was not certain how I knew her. Having little else to do besides people-watch, after the second glass of Champagne, I pushed through the throng and approached her.

  “Excuse me, but you look really familiar,” I ventured. Catching me totally off guard, she gave me a hug, like a long-lost friend at a high school reunion. I still had trouble remembering how small this Hermès world really was. It turned out she was the woman who had sold me the “reserved” crocodile at the Hamburg Hermès shop. Lovely Hannah, of course. The original Grandmother.

  “I’m the manager here now,” she said with a big smile. I returned her smile without a bit of faked enthusiasm. I was really excited, because I knew Hannah loved me. Visions of croc bags leaving the shop with me danced in my head.

  As we spoke, a man sauntered up. He looked like he had looted an Hermès shop and was wearing all the bounty: a bright orange croc H-belt, diamond brooch with rubies and sapphires, diamond-encrusted watch, orange croc shoes, the whole nine yards. As if that gauche display on any one person wasn’t garish enough, he was carrying a woman’s 40cm orange croc Birkin. What the fuck? Some orange crocodile out there was missing her mother. Hannah evidently knew this apparition and introduced us.

  “Michael, I’d like you to meet Lakis Gavalas. Mr. Gavalas designed the Kelly Lakis bag for Hermès.”

  Oh, wow, here he was—Serge’s summer playmate. I hadn’t expected him to look like this, but on second thought, how could I have? I decided to show him that he might not know about me, but I sure knew a few things about him.

  “Wow, this is really amazing. Serge at the Faubourg sold me a Kelly Lakis a couple of years ago. He told me about your vast collection of Hermès bags, and your fabulous house parties out on Mykonos,” I said. I inwardly cringed at how gushy I sounded, but that’s why I was there, after all. As much as it pained me, I had to play the game.

  At this point, Lakis extended a limp hand. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to shake it or kiss it, as if he were some sort of pope of homosexuality. I nearly gagged, and settled on weakly gesturing with my Champagne flute in his general direction. Placated by my pandering, Lakis then launched into what was less a conversation and more a self-aggrandizing monologue. I found myself mesmerized—not by his inane, solipsistic drone, but rather by his teeth, which had been bleached so many times they were now the color of moonstones. Set off against his George Hamilton über-tan, they honestly made him look Photoshopped. He finally begged off and headed in the direction of the Creamsicle.

  Reminded forcibly why I loathed these events, I finished my Champagne and said my good-byes to Hannah, reassuring her that I would see her in the morning. I told her that I had brought a big shopping list from my mother, and she lit up like a Christmas tree and murmured, “We have very unusual things from Paris for the opening.”

  I wanted to say no shit, that I had seen all the croc in the store, but instead told her I couldn’t wait to shop with her tomorrow. I needed to be nice—after all, she was a Grandmother.

  I walked back to the hotel and, famished from all my fawning, wolfed down a steak in the hotel bistro. I called Sarah and dished on the party, and informed her of my plan to be at the store five minutes before they opened tomorrow morning. (I was feeling cautiously confident that my afternoon phone call would be a success story.) Sarah didn’t seem to want to count her crocs before they hatched. Or, I reflected after hanging up, it could have been my fairy tale of Grandmothers, Creamsicles, and Moonstones that accounted for her rather disengaged tone. I didn’t care, though, as long as tomorrow brought me my Hermès happily-ever-after.

  30

  There’s More Than One Way to Skin a Crocodile

  The next morning, I rounded the corner to the shop and immediately spied a line of about ten people at the front door to Hermès. Easily half of them were Asian men. You see, not surprisingly, I was not the only person who had noticed that Japanese people love Hermès but pay too much for it at the store. Increasingly, I was seeing well-dressed Asian men, often in groups, nary a woman in sight, enacting “the formula” and cruising out with a Birkin apiece. It was apparent to me that they were hosting my longed-for Hermès open-house parties and reselling these bags for a tidy profit in Japan or Korea. Some I knew for a fact to be resellers, as Sarah would receive e-mails from them trying to get her to buy the “less desirable” (or sometimes the most desirable) bags, but with a gigantic markup. So, I couldn’t prevent my suspicious heart from concluding that a group of Asian men, sans women, in Athens at the opening of an Hermès store, meant one thing: I wasn’t the only reseller there that morning. As soon as they unlocked the door, the four men converged on the handbag department and immediately occupied the four saleswomen working in the store. This included Hannah, who saw me, smiled, and waved hello—however, as a Grandmother, she was helpless in the grasp of the Asian resellers.

  Disconcerted, I wandered around the store aimlessly and thumbed through the racks of clothing. In nightmarishly rapid succession, I saw the four croc Birkins being taken from the display cases. My heart sank to my Gucci loafers. But oddly enough, although there was nary a bag left to be seen, the Asian men all filed out empty-handed. I couldn’t believe my eyes. What new sort of formula was this? Did these men know something I didn’t? I guessed that they did. First karaoke and karate, now this. Hannah approached me and gave me a hug, but I was completely distracted by what just went down. I decided on a new approach. I told her I wanted the poudre croc Birkin that was in the display by the front door (a bag which had now disappeared). Hannah replied with words that filled me with dread: “Michael, unfortunately I don’t have any croc left.” I looked at her dumbly.

  “I have several Birkins for you, though, but no croc. There is a blue jean 35cm, a 30 and 35cm black, a vermillon…” She continued on with a supersized shopping list of bags, but these basic leather Birkins failed to excite me. Having just felt all the croc slip through my grasping fingers, I couldn’t even feign interest. Before leaving the store, I had Hannah put aside a couple of shawls for me and some small leather items in hopes of a croc Birkin somehow materializing out of thin air. The store was now full of people, so I told her I was going for an early lunch and would return later, after I spoke with my mom. I was anxious to get out of the store and contemplate my next move. A total conundrum, as Asian resellers beating me at my own game was not covered in the formula. Back to the drawing board.

  I was originally supposed to check out of the hotel by noon, so I stopped at the front desk and extended my stay, then went back up to my room and changed my flight. I needed an additional day to work this through. Going home Birkinless was not an option. I was into this trip for the cost of a business-class airline ticket and two nights at the five-star Bretagne, never mind having to kiss that moron Moonstone’s ass last night at the reception.

  With the weather now somewhat more amenable, I opted for a walk around the Acropolis in hopes of receiving messages from ancient Greek deities. Anyone but Hermès. While wandering around, I decided that if I wasn’t going to get a croc, then I’d push Hannah to sell me two leather Birkins. After all, she rattled off a long list of leather bags, so that certainly wouldn’t put a dent in her supply. I wasn’t completely happy with the solution, but I didn’t see any other options. As I walked back down to Syntagma Square, my cell phone rang.

  “Hey, what’s up? It’s
Sarah.” Before I could tell her anything, she launched into an eye-opening tale.

  “I got an e-mail this morning from another seller offering me a blue roi croc, a poudre croc, a matte black lizard, and a braise croc, but the prices are nuts.”

  Holy shit, she just listed the same four bags that I watched vanish before my eyes in a matter of moments just hours ago. I could barely get the words out intelligibly.

  “Those are the exact four bags that are here in Athens. They were in the display case when the store opened this morning, but four Asian resellers snagged them right from under me. Are you gonna buy ’em?”

  “Are you nuts? The prices are way out of fucking control!” Sarah said, with her customary reserve.

  “This entire situation is way out of fucking control. I’ll call you later.”

  So there I was. Sarah had no Birkins, I had no Birkins, and due to their surprise attack, the Asians had all the Birkins. Pearl Harbor all over again.

  I decided to return to the store and see if anything had changed. When I entered, the shop was still quite busy and I casually glanced at the display cases to see if anything new had magically appeared or if one of the crocs had crept back home. Their empty glass cages mocked me. When I was finally able to get Hannah aside for a moment, I mumbled some bullshit about my mom and her ongoing round of golf and headed for the door. On my way out, I spotted a handsome young man (undoubtedly an Incurable Romantic) standing behind the cash desk, talking on the phone. I hadn’t seen any men working earlier. The lightbulb over my head finally illuminated. I snagged one of the new copies of Le Monde d’Hermès from a stack (for the telephone number of this new Athens shop) and skedaddled.