Andorra had always seemed too good to be true, and sadly, in the end, it was. Hermès had started its franchised stores at a time when it was unsure of its potential to flourish on a worldwide level. Now, given its unbelievable success in the global market, the company had no need to keep locations like this one open. Quite simply, franchised stores did not earn Hermès the same kind of revenue as corporate-owned locations. One day, about a year after I had first started raiding Andorra’s bounty, the other (horse)shoe dropped. I had barely gotten out of my car (parked as usual in the loading zone right in front) when a visibly distraught Carmen came out the front door of the store. She immediately launched into a lengthy tale of woe.
“Michael, it’s horrible, you won’t believe it, Hermès is forcing me to close down. My husband and I went to Paris last week for a meeting at headquarters. I think I may have mentioned last time I saw you that we haven’t been getting our shipments these past couple months?”
I numbly nodded.
“Well, we’ve made all these appointments to talk to the Hermès powers that be about our situation, and they all keep canceling out on us at the last minute. We finally get to the boardroom this time, and they tell us that they won’t be able to supply us with goods any longer. Of course, I can’t exactly sell Hermès product if I can’t get any! We considered suing for breach of contract, but what’s the point? I’m better off without the hassle.”
I was, naturally, quite dismayed at all this. This woman, and her store, had been exceedingly good to me. I also didn’t like seeing this side of Hermès. I had always distrusted large corporations, but oddly enough, I hadn’t really given too much thought to the possible machinations of Hermès in particular. (Quite probably because I was too damn busy with my own Hermès business…FYI, Hermès does have an official Web site now; like a lot of luxury brands, they had just been a little slow on the uptake, not launching one until 2002.) But now it came home to me…I was something of a persona non grata to a company like Hermès. They wanted to control their market utterly, that much was now obvious. Up until now, I had cast myself as someone who made Hermès accessible to those who couldn’t run out to one of their stores themselves. (Which, with only fifteen or so stores in the U.S., was a lot of people…plus, many of the designs that kicked around the older European stores were simply not available in the American locations.) But to Hermès, I was a rogue warrior, reselling to the masses. It was the difference between wearing the cowboy hat or the dark moustache. Still, if I wanted to continue paying the rent, I had to keep a low profile. I wasn’t doing anything illegal, certainly, but neither was Carmen, and they shut her down without even a second thought. Well, at least I could take comfort in the knowledge that Carmen wasn’t exactly headed to the breadline. Her husband owned several hotels and Peugeot dealerships. The biggest economic impact would be weathered by Carmen’s wardrobe budget—she was the store’s best customer.
“Michael,” she continued, “I don’t want those bastards, pardon my vulgarity, buying anything back that I can sell to you at the same price, so today, anything you want, I will sell to you at cost. I would rather see you with it than them.”
Wait a minute—at cost? Like, 50-percent-off-the-list-price cost? Okay, maybe I was slightly self-interested, but her offer did take out a little bit of the sting. I tried not to look too happy.
I had hoped for one last nostalgic glimpse of the store in my rear-view mirror, but $30,000 worth of Hermès items obstructed my sightline. I thought about calling my mom; I knew she’d be all excited about my windfall. I got as far as the first three digits and put the phone back down. I wasn’t in a celebratory mood. Despite the significant money I would make from Carmen’s generosity, today’s experience had been bittersweet at best. It wasn’t really the loss of my favored location—after all, there were lots of other Hermès stores I could buy from. No, it was that in some weird way it was the end of an era. It wasn’t all a caprice anymore, as it had been when I’d first crossed Andorra’s border. Carmen’s story made me realize this was business, and business could be ruthless. I also realized something else very important—I’d have to get nicer pajamas.
10
Livig It p Betwee the Birki ad Barceloa (“Michael’s Theme”)
I finally decided that I needed to take back my life from eBay. I had become something of an auction addict, and it was making me a little uncomfortable. Remember, work to live, not live to work…I kept reminding myself of my mantra. So one evening, after a particularly long stretch of nights at home watching my watchers, I wrenched myself away from the screen. An hour or so later, Michael had left the building. I felt absurdly proud of myself as I rode the elevator down to the lobby. At this point, I had no BlackBerry, so I was truly liberated from the virtual marketplace. I hailed a cab and headed to one of my favorite haunts.
I think I love hanging out at the Hotel Arts because it’s like going away on vacation and paying only five bucks for “airfare.” Housed in the Port Olympic complex, it was constructed as part of the massive urban overhaul that preceded the 1992 Olympics. I now understood why cities competed so heavily for the athletic invasion of the Games. It was like hosting a giant party, but instead of just having an empty keg the next day, you netted a whole bag of municipal goodies built off tourist dollars. And Port Olympic is undoubtedly Barcelona’s poster child for that whole concept. Impeccably planned and superbly architected, it is a virtually flawless inner-city Mediterranean sanctuary. Admittedly, the main draw is not man-made—it is the two stunning public beaches that run through the area. However, the renovators wisely built on nature’s glory, and those clothing-optional beaches are now paralleled by a palm tree–shaded boardwalk that hosts crowds of midday inline skaters and joggers. The revitalization effort also added beach bars, restaurants of every imaginable sort, a gigantic marina, funky sculptures, nightclubs and discos, two hotels, and even a casino. But the crowning glory, in my eyes at least, is the Ritz-Carlton Hotel Arts.
On my first visit there, I had been both surprised and charmed to walk inside a giant luxury hotel and be greeted by the soothing sound of running water and the wafting scent of flowers. I was now used to that slightly disconcerting moment of “outdoors brought indoors” when I entered the hotel and knew it was provided by the rock-embedded waterfalls and arrangements of highly sought-after species of orchids. It gave the whole lobby area a tranquil vibe that subtly relaxed your mind (and, presumably, your grip on your wallet). On a less ethereal note, I also dug the custom-made furniture designed by Jaume Tresserra (a Catalan designer who is clearly a disciple of Ruhlmann’s Art Deco genius). But arguably the coolest aspect of the whole place is the outdoor Frank Gehry whale sculpture, literally bigger than most homes. The sculpture’s woven metallic curves are a Pink Floyd song brought to life, the color constantly changing under the natural and artificial lights playing over its surface. (Timothy Leary would have had a field day.) It’s considered the magnum opus of Gehry’s “fish period.” But since I had seen it all before, that night I was considerably more interested in the fish I was going to eat.
The Arola restaurant is my personal favorite among the various dining choices in the building. Massive sliding glass walls serve a dual purpose—to allow a breathtaking view of the manicured gardens that lead down to the omnipresent backdrop of ocean’s edge, and to provide a seamless border to alfresco dining. On warm evenings, which are the majority, the walls are left wide open and the candlelit terrace forms a natural extension of the indoor area. I also groove on the high-visibility kitchen—as an aspiring gourmet cook myself, I love seeing how the professionals do it in a critically acclaimed establishment. Additionally appealing to my voyeuristic tendencies is the wine cellar, which is a large glass enclosure in the center of the room, a transparent cube showcasing thousands of bottles. So I was more than a little excited to be back here in Arola, finally at large in the world again, and about to make up for some of the past few weeks of hermetic scarf-mongering.
As
the hostess wound us both through the crowded dining room over to my table for one, the mouthwatering smells and fleeting glimpses of succulent entrées awakened my hunger. By the time I was seated, conveniently adjacent to the wine cube, I was more than ready to pore over the eclectic offerings on the pica pica. The pica pica—a colloquial variation on the word picar, meaning “to pick”—is not really a menu. It’s a written description of that particular night’s surprise mini-dishes, available à la carte for the adventurous diner. Since it gives you more than a dozen courses of small portions of exquisitely wrought food, I’m a pica pica patron, that’s for sure.
I reveled in the thought of culinary delights on their way and ordered a bottle of 200 Monks Rioja from my gracious waitress. My one big decision of the evening—the wine, of course—thus made, I was free to people-watch. My eyes were drawn to a particularly handsome quintet (three men and two women) seated diagonally from me. They were clearly Catalan, not Spanish, as evidenced by their lighter complexions and more European bone structures. They were also clearly bent on celebrating, although in Spain excuses to celebrate include getting out of bed that morning and the ability to breathe for long periods of time. Then my first parcel of pica pica arrived, and I was distracted from my spying. But a few glasses of wine later, I made the journey to the little boys’ room, and almost ran right into one of the trio of men I’d surveyed. He smiled, introduced himself, and initiated conversation, feigning mock surprise over my dining alone. Over the course of our small talk, I was struck by two things: how fun it was to flirt again, and how perfect his English was. Clearly younger than me, Juan exuded kindness, and I wasn’t surprised to learn he was a teacher at a private high school in Barcelona. After speaking for only those few minutes, I already wanted to know more about him, and amazingly enough, he also seemed interested in little ol’ me. Determined not to blow things by seeming too eager, I coolly dropped a hint about my later club destination, and returned triumphantly to my table to drain my final glass and head out.
Later that night, sipping a fresh drink at Celtes, I made a conscious effort not to babysit the door; I didn’t want to overindulge my hopes of seeing my new acquaintance, Juan. Somehow, though, I was still looking right at the entrance when he and his friends strolled in. I saw him casually scan the crowd, and then smile widely when he spotted me by the bar, and at that sight of him the floor under my feet seemed to quake slightly. As I watched him make his way over to where I stood expectantly, I had a premonition that his was one name I would have no problem entering into my address book in nonerasable ink.
A few weeks later, my new romance in full bloom, it took extreme effort to stop mooning around the apartment aimlessly, a blissful grin on my face. But time and eBay stop for no man, and I determinedly tethered myself back to my work. Continents were about to shift pretty drastically there too, but in my love-induced stupor, I heard nary a rumble. I was happily listing and auctioning, not a care in the world. When one day I sold a set of pretty Hermès playing cards, I was simply happy that someone had elected to “Buy It Now” and give them a new home. (Any time I could get an item out of the guest room, I felt I had accomplished something.) Little did I know—like any Old West cowboy who lost his horse in a poker game—my life was destined to be changed forever by that single deck of cards. Of course, I hadn’t thought anything important rested on my restaurant choice a couple of weeks ago, either, so obviously my Spidey-skills were on the fritz.
And then I got an e-mail.
From: [email protected]
Subject: endofauction: payment details
To: [email protected]
Armoire-Auctions: I am the assistant to Carole Bayer Sager and will be making payment and shipping arrangements with you. Please confirm your mailing address for remittance. Cordially, Tori
Oh wow, my first famous client! Carole Bayer Sager! That woman wrote songs for everyone. Barbra Streisand, Aretha Franklin, Frank Sinatra, Bette Midler, Whitney Houston, Ray Charles…not to mention that she is Burt Bacharach’s ex-wife. I called Juan’s cell phone immediately, bubbling with excitement.
“Juan, you will never believe this…I sold a deck of Hermès cards to CAROLE BAYER SAGER!” Right after the words left my mouth, I wondered whether he would even know who she was. I mean, I wasn’t sure how big she was in Spain. Oh, me of little faith.
“In good times, in bad times, I’ll be on your side forevermore…” Juan immediately began singing “That’s What Friends Are For” (one of her eight billion hits), in a surprisingly strong baritone voice, and then he laughed. “Really, Mikey, are you sure it’s her?”
“Well, I don’t have any reason to think that it isn’t her…I’m going to e-mail her back right now…talk later?”
“Yeah, but keep me posted…I always thought I belonged in theater, maybe this could be my big break?” Juan’s voice was faux-pleading.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I laughed. “Get some kind of routine together, just in case.”
He hung up, singing his good-byes, and I laughed for a minute after putting down the phone. He was pretty funny, and more than that, I loved that we could be silly and goofy together, even this soon in the relationship. Smiling and humming to myself, I got down to business and typed a reply. (I reminded myself to play it cool—I didn’t want to come off all googly-eyed and starstruck.)
From: “michael”
To: “Tori”
hi tori, the address you received in the end-of-auction notice is correct. i will send the item out by registered mail upon receipt of your payment. thanks for your help, michael
My celebrity excitement rekindled when I got the payment. The check was drawn on a trust at some fancy-pants L.A. law firm, and I was damned sure it would clear. I pretty much forgot about the whole thing once I shipped out the cards. I figured that one e-mail was the last of my brush with fame and fortune. Happily, I was mistaken. About a week later I received the following e-mail:
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hermès Birkins
To: [email protected]
Hi Michael, thanks for the cards, they’re perfect!!! I’ve looked at your ebay listings, you have some great things. keep me in mind for any Birkins. I’m always interested (especially croc!). carole
From: “michael”
To: “CBS”
hi carole, i’m thrilled that you are pleased. do you want me to start a wish list for you? i do that for lots of my clients. michael
I had no idea what a Birkin was. I promptly fired off an e-mail to Grace, explaining the situation. Then I Googled Birkin. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why Carole Bayer Sager wanted me to find CDs by some French singer and actress named Jane Birkin. (And what the hell did “croc” mean?) Maybe this Birkin chick’s CDs were out of print in the States or something. Hey, this could be my new sideline. I figured I’d wait to hear back from Grace before I cleaned out France’s Amazon site. I didn’t want to jinx things.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hermès Birkin
To: [email protected]
Michael, a Birkin is a famous handbag made by Hermès. Croc refers to crocodile (which the most expensive Birkins are made of). Not to worry…you won’t be getting any Birkins, croc or otherwise. Grace
In and out of the music business before I even got started. Damn. Poor Jane.
From: “Michael”
To: “GraceoftheGarden”
grace, what do you mean I won’t be getting any? do they not make them anymore??? but I want to get one for CBS. michael
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Michael, a Birkin is THE celebrity it-bag and literally impossible to get…which is EXACTLY why she is asking you to get her one…even she can’t get one. It’s well kno
wn amongst a certain class of woman that there is a two or three year waiting list to get a Birkin. The joke goes that there is even a waiting list to get on the waiting list. Grace
p.s. Did I mention that they can cost as much as a car?
From: “michael”
To: “GraceoftheGarden”
grace, are we talking Hyundai or Hummer? michael
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Either. Birkins range in price from about $7000 (the basic leather model) on up to about $100,000 (the Persian Princess model). And trust me, there are Birkin collectors just as there are Hermès scarf collectors. Grace
Man alive, these purses made everything else at Hermès look reasonably priced.
(I flashed back to my first day in the Barcelona store and was grateful I hadn’t seen them then—I probably would have run out screaming.) Which did make me wonder…where did they keep these bags, anyway? In solitary confinement? I had to at least see one…I was already way beyond intrigued. Because in the midst of all this e-mailing, my mind had started calculating (I’d always been pretty decent at word problems). If a $225 scarf doubled in price at auction it made me…$225. Now, if a $7,000 handbag doubled in price it made me…wow. So one Birkin equaled…a shitload of scarves. But even with math on my side, a couple of things weren’t adding up so nicely. Like, where would I get $100,000 to buy a handbag? How come Carole Bayer Sager couldn’t get her own Birkin? Who the hell was in charge of these waiting lists? (In a restaurant you just slipped the maître d’ a twenty and got the best table—I wasn’t sure that would work here.) I was determined to get to the bottom of this Birkin thing, for my sake, and for Carole’s—after all, that’s what friends are for.
Bringing Home the Birkin Page 5