From: “GraceoftheGarden”
To: “Michael”
Hi Michael, wow! You are really on a roll. What’s your secret, who are you sleeping with? Teehee. More importantly, where have you been (other than Hermès, I mean)? Grace
From: “Michael”
To: “GraceoftheGarden”
grace, sorry, i’ve been a little delinquent in filling you in. i’ve been on somewhat of a Birkin buying binge. i figured out a new shopping method, i call it “the formula” (it doesn’t involve sleeping with anyone) and so far i’m 3 for 3 today. (3 Hermès shops, 3 birkins). I figured out if I pile up about $1000 in merchandise, then pop the Birkin question, they’re happy to sell me one. MUCH more on all of this later. i’m starving and was just about to head out to dinner.
michael
p.s. i’m in aix-en-provence heading for cannes tomorrow…then on to st. tropez and monte carlo, will write more from there. mt
That night, when I returned from a delicious dinner at Le Clos de la Violette (lamb with garlic cream and a half bottle of Saint-Emilion), I was ready for a good night’s sleep. I loved leaving my windows wide open when I stayed in Provence, so that lavender-scented air would waft through my room—and my dreams—all night long. But I couldn’t resist checking my e-mail one last time. Bingo—Birkin #2 had a buyer. I snuggled down under the duvet. Sweet dreams indeed, one of which came true…when I checked my e-mails in the morning, the last of the purses had sold.
There were six little Birkins, all in a row, snug in the trunk of my car as I headed back to Barcelona a few days later. There was also about $5 of spending limit left on each of my credit cards. If I played my cards right, I would have plenty of money for food and fuel on the ride back. Okay, so this was going to be an issue. I needed to start my creative juices flowing about this conundrum of cost versus credit limit, that’s for sure. Because Birkins weren’t about to get any cheaper, I knew there was only one solution…more credit for moi. I wondered—could you take out Hermès handbag equity loans?
16
How Do I Buy These?…Let Me Count the Ways…
Okay, so it took me a really short time to get the Birkins, at least compared with the average bear, but it took an even shorter time to sell them. All six went bye-bye-Birkin in a matter of hours to various private clients, netting over $20,000 in the process. I didn’t even need to auction, because sending those bulk e-mails to previous Hermès eBay customers worked like a charm. This venture was clearly going to be all about my capital. Thanking my lucky stars that I had cleaned up my credit many moons ago, I immediately started filling out credit card applications as a hobby. I also tried to think of ways I could get Birkins without leaving the comfort of my home. I did dearly love Barcelona and my cozy pad, but it was mostly a business issue. The less money I spent to get the Birkins, the better my bottom line would be. This kind of work was pretty much all about controlling the expenses, and since I was about 90 percent of the expenses, it made sense to explore other ways of buying. One thing I had going for me: I was damn sure that I didn’t need to pull together an advertising budget. Thanks, Hermès, you guys really had my back on this one.
I knew the stores didn’t take credit cards over the phone (charge-sends), but one store employee had mentioned the possibility of a bank wire transfer. Allowing transfers in lieu of charge-sends served two purposes. Besides preventing some pickpocket from ordering off some poor schmuck’s stolen cards, it also eliminated the chance of someone doing a chargeback after receiving thousands of dollars of merchandise. It was logical fraud protection on their part, given the price points involved. This was fine by me, since I had no intention of committing fraud of any kind. I just needed more stuff to sell—I would have paid in crocks of cheese if that was their preferred currency.
I pulled out Le Monde d’Hermès and looked first at the French stores, trying to find one that I hadn’t been to in the last few weeks. Deauville popped out at me for a couple of reasons. First, I knew it was a rich seaside town, along the lines of Newport, Rhode Island, or Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, so the Birkins-per-capita ratio could be good. Second, it was such a pain to get to, about two hours outside of Paris, that the likelihood of me going there in the flesh was pretty slim, so I had nothing to lose. My main concern now was about using the formula over the phone. I wasn’t sure how to go about it, exactly, especially with my beginning Berlitz French language skills. But when I called and asked for an English-speaking salesperson, I was informed by the woman who answered that she knew a “leetle English if you speak slow, sir, please.” My wish list was too daunting, apparently, given our language issues, and she requested that I fax it instead. Even though I didn’t have a fax machine, I quickly agreed. What the hell, I had all that advertising budget money free, I might as well up my technology spending. I ran out, bought a nice machine, and couldn’t unpack and set it up fast enough. Hey, if this fax method worked, I might be telecommuting all the time. My half-hermit heart hammered in my chest at the very idea. I faxed the list, which included the usual batch of scarves, a Ulysse notebook thrown in for good measure, and at the very bottom, a Birkin. I hoped it went without saying that I would take any flavor of Birkin.
The fax machine had barely stopped making noises when the phone rang. It was my saleswoman. Fingers crossed.
“Mr. Tonello, this ees Dominique, from Hermès. We have everything you wanted, sir. The Birkin is a 35cm blue jean with palladium lock. Ees that okay?” That little accent still, but her English was markedly better now that I was spending a boatload.
“Yes, yes, that will be fine, thank you for all your trouble.” I was elated. Formula by fax—this was beyond amazing.
“No, no…thank you, sir. And so when can we expect you to be by the store, Mr. Tonello?”
Uh-oh. This was the only hurdle left to handbag hog heaven.
“Well, actually, Dominique, I won’t be able to come in to pick them up. I wish to have the items shipped to my home here in Barcelona.” Authority with just the right amount of affability, or so I hoped.
“Sir, Hermès does not do charge ships, I am sorry.” Dominique sounded slightly horrified I would even ask.
“No, no, I am sorry, of course not…I meant to say, I can arrange a bank wire transfer…is that an acceptable sort of payment?” Improvising as I went along.
“Well, yes. That would be acceptable.” Her voice had gone from superfreeze to warm and cozy in world-record time. We got down to business and sealed the deal to our mutual satisfaction. Another Birkin was coming my way—and oh yeah, some scarves and a Ulysse—items that I had begun to think of as the Birkin bait.
So that was easy. Expensive, of course, but easy. I was very glad I had bought the fax machine, and as it turned out, it was a savvy move indeed. Because it ended up that Dominique and I would have a long, glorious relationship of the purse-based sort. Over the next two years, Hermès via Deauville via Dominique would provide me with more than twenty Birkins, all ordered over the phone. To this day, I’ve never crossed its threshold, but I traveled via phone line so often it remains one of my very favorite Hermès stores.
When the blue jean Birkin arrived, I pondered what to do with it. I knew for sure that I could e-mail everyone in my Hermès inner circle with the delectable details and watch as they all fell over each other like bridesmaids after the bouquet. The sales method I had been using did work without fail. But an entrepreneur has to be open to risk and willing to embrace change, or at least that’s what I had read in Business for Dummies. So, I decided to put it up on eBay instead, with a “Buy It Now” for considerably more than I had been getting. I hemmed and hawed over how long I should make the auction, and after much hand-wringing, I went with a seven-day listing. What a waste of my time and energy all that internal drama was, since five minutes after I posted the listing, someone with the user name “DeluxeDiva” snatched it out
of cyberspace, using the “Buy It Now” feature of the auction. I got an e-mail a moment later, almost frightening in its intensity.
From: [email protected]
Subject: eBay Auction
To: [email protected]
Michael—I am thrilled with my purchase. I will send a bank wire transfer to you upon receipt of your details. And, going forward, I would gladly buy from you all Birkins you can get, at a price fair to both of us. I think we could both benefit from such a relationship. Let me know your thoughts.
Cordially,
Sarah
This woman meant business. I wondered if she realized what she could be in for. If I kept going gangbusters like this past week, as I was determined I would, she would be buying two or three purses a week, minimum. California Closets would have to hire a whole design team to meet this particular lady’s storage needs if her pace matched mine. So, I needed to clear things up, but nicely.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
sarah, yes, bank transfer is of course fine. (if it’s good enough for Hermès, it’s good enough for me.) but as to the second part of your email: as I have not listed any birkins on eBay before, you may not realize what you are asking. i am buying and selling several birkins a week to private clients, so I am not sure if you truly want every single one that I manage to procure. let me know…michael
Less than two minutes later:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Michael, I have an insatiable love for these purses, and it would be great to get at least first refusal on any you get. I guarantee I will be a great client. (And I would love to know your secret to getting so many bags!) But seriously, I have a feeling we are going to get along just fine. Thanks loads and be in touch. Sarah
Well, well, well, wasn’t that interesting. What would she do with all those bags? But really, did I care? She could use them as planters for all the difference it really made to me. No harm in giving her first refusal—after all, she had paid top dollar.
I decided not to write back again until I had another Birkin to hawk, and then we would see how that went. I had met people obsessed with Birkins, but Sarah’s obsession touched on the surreal. What if she really wasn’t an overly wealthy socialite but something more insidious? I had a brief vision of Sarah knocking on my door in jackboots and a leather overcoat, and behind her, the Hermès Death Squad. Dangling from her outstretched arms would be polished crocodile skin and glinting palladium—hard evidence of my reselling hijinks. Okay, I was truly deep in the Hermès Fun House now, where people’s personal realities (including mine) were as distorted as a reflection in one of those wavy mirrors. I needed to come back down to earth, where purses were in the two-and three-figure range, so I called Mom.
“Hi, honey, I was going to call you if I didn’t hear from you soon. I assume things are good in Spain?” Her voice, as always, sounded like home to me.
“Yeah, things are good, really good. I’m doing well with the Birkin thing, but I think I might need to move closer to the post office.”
She laughed. Thinking my stupid jokes were funny was one of her finest qualities. Then it suddenly dawned on me—I hadn’t called to make her laugh, but because I needed to tell her something that I was pretty serious about. I hadn’t fully realized it before dialing, but I knew now without question—it was time to spill the beans.
“Mom, remember how I’ve been mentioning Juan, and how great he is, and all that?” I didn’t give her a chance to answer my rhetorical question. I talked about Juan enough recently that the only way she wouldn’t have remembered him was if she had undergone a full-frontal lobotomy since the last time we talked. “So, anyway, I wanted to tell you something because I know I’ve thought I was happy before with other people and all that…but I want to tell you first…and, well, I think he is my soul mate, you know, like, The One.”
I waited, surprised at what I’d said. Juan and I had started saying “I love you” a few weeks before, so I knew he and I were at least feeling the same things, or similar things, but still—I had never said the word “soul mate” before, about him or anyone else. It had jumped out of my mouth of its own accord.
“Oh, Michael, I’m so happy for you. That’s so wonderful.” Her voice held real emotion. For no reason at all, I was on the verge of tears. Well, the verge of the verge, actually.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m really happy, too. Really, really happy. Took long enough, right?” And I realized I was really happy, too, ecstatic even, though seconds ago I had been battling for control of my tear ducts. Up and down, up and down, that’s how powerful this whole thing with Juan was. And the more I thought the word “soul mate” to myself, the more right it sounded. Clearly, I was a wreck.
I half listened to my mom talk for a few more minutes, simply enjoying the sound of her voice, pleased to hear how much both she and my father loved their retirement lifestyle. After I got off the phone, while getting ready for my dinner with Mr. Soul Mate later that evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about my subconscious revelation. I wondered what else I was going to say unexpectedly. I’d better not get drunk tonight, that’s for sure. I would probably start reciting Elizabeth Barrett Browning or something—Jesus. I needed to get a grip. I needed to pull it together. I needed…well, something. Or maybe, this time, it was someone I needed.
Juan was, as usual, excellent company that evening. I was quieter than normal. I began wondering what our future held. “Our” future…had I just thought that? That was one heavy thought. I was keeping it light tonight, remember, brain? Enough schmaltzy soul-mate stuff for today. I distracted myself from myself by admiring the restaurant he had picked for the evening, a place called Botafumeiro. It epitomized Old World Spain, with autographed photographs adorning the walls, a brass-accented interior, and a handsome suit-clad waitstaff. They squeezed by the tables, arms straining under plates of amazing Galician seafood, some of it looking like the best of what you can find in Barcelona (and that was saying something). The place felt cozy, but Juan had mentioned the seating capacity was much larger than it looked, each room opening off the other, creating a labyrinth of dining. I craned my neck, trying to get a better look down the hallway at the cavernous opening of the next room, but soon gave up. I could explore later, on a trip to the men’s room.
Snug on my seat at the enormous horseshoe-shaped mahogany bar, I realized this was a place Juan knew I would love, and that he had really taken care to ensure the perfect evening. I had no doubt he had reserved this seating specifically so we could sit side by side, and he had even remembered I didn’t like cava, the local sparkling wine. I drank only French Champagne, and I always ordered it despite the prevailing sentiment that the local “champagne” was superior. (I had finally learned to stoically endure the raised eyebrows of my Spanish waiters.) I had also told Juan all about my days back in Ptown, when I used to order a case of Bollinger to kick off the summer. The green bottle sitting atop the cracked ice in the large hotel-plate urn in front of us was none other than that exact brand. He must have phoned ahead to ensure they would have it already chilled for us—they never kept anything but cava on ice. I smiled over at him, thinking flowery thoughts again, and took a gorgeously Gallic sip. A few seconds later, I busted him staring at me over the top of his champagne flute.
“Yes? Can I help you?” I cheerily inquired. I always took refuge in humor.
“No, I’m okay.” He smiled back.
Juan was more literal than I. I attributed this idiosyncrasy to his job teaching English at a private high school. In that business, you’d better say exactly what you mean. He also spoke half a dozen languages, give or take, which might have something to do with his “dictionary definition only” approach to conversation. I could live with it. Which made me wonder…could I live with him…period? I was starting to think I’d like to share a home with him, but I wasn’t sure where he was on the subject. Which,
I guess, is a timeless problem. Adam probably felt awkward about broaching the subject of garden cohabitation with Eve, or, in this case, Steve. Either way, I had no intention of bringing it up tonight.
“Juan…I’ve been thinking…well, I…wanted to know if you maybe wanted to move in with me.” What!?! What did I just say? I meant to mention that I talked to my mom today about us, or to say that I really did care about him, or to emphasize that I meant it whenever I said “I love you.” I certainly hadn’t meant to ask him to move in, right then, there, in the restaurant, before we even got the olives and bread. I glared accusingly at my glass of Champagne. Foiled myself again.
“Michael, I…have you thought this through?” His brown eyes searched mine. I hoped he couldn’t see that I was panicking, and then, suddenly, I wasn’t panicking at all.
“Yes, Juan…I have.” My voice was confident. What’s a white lie between soul mates?
“Then, yes…I will…I would love to, actually.” He smiled.
“It will save you on your commute, and you’re at my place most nights anyway, and our cell phone bills are atrocious, and…” I have no idea why I was still talking. Neither did Juan. He laid a hand over mine, in that gentle way he had, and I stopped midsentence.
“I said yes, Michael, okay? You don’t need to convince me. This is right, between you and me…don’t you think?” His voice was soft, but it carried. It carried more than any expensive bag could. Juan’s voice carried love, and it went right to my heart.
17
Knight in Shining Croc
Juan and I spent the next couple of weeks settling into our new life together, which mostly consisted of playing armoire arrangement acrobatics—thankfully, his wardrobe was of a much more reasonable size than mine, so we finally succeeded, albeit snugly. It was then time to tackle the guest room, since my mom and dad were finally making good on their promise to visit. I was really excited, not only for them to see Barcelona but also for them to meet Juan. He seemed a little nervous about it, but he had definitely been given more time to prepare for their visit than the scant warning I had received before that first Sunday lunch at his parents’ (although I have to admit, the Sunday afternoon feast was now a highlight of my week). Anyway, I knew as soon as the three of them were in a room together, it would all be fine. I had given up trying to reassure Juan of this, though—it definitely fell on deaf ears.
Bringing Home the Birkin Page 8