Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  When I came to after my faint, I was lying on the pavement of the sidewalk, with most of the “line people” peering down at me anxiously. There were also a couple of policemen there, both looking at me rather grimly. When they realized I wasn’t drunk or high, they looked even grimmer, and argued vehemently with me in broken English about my stubborn resolve to travel. I think they wanted to handcuff me and put me in an ambulance themselves, which was actually the only way they could have kept me in France at this point. I hadn’t got this far to turn back now. And I didn’t seem to have any broken bones, so I thought I would just go to the doctor in Spain. One little old Spanish lady took pity on me, and once the officers finally left, she propped me on a bench next to my Birkins and bought my ticket for me.

  The train ride was a fucking nightmare. I definitely had a fever, and all of a sudden I became chilled from the air-conditioning. I was Greg Brady trapped in the meat locker at Sam’s butcher shop. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and when the train mercifully got to my stop, I mustered my final bit of energy to drag my bags and my body into a cab.

  Once I was home, Juan took one look at me and immediately ordered me to bed. He fiddled around the kitchen, making me soup and muttering in Catalan, while I gratefully climbed into my pj’s and into bed. Darkness. Fourteen hours later I awakened to Juan’s stormy but concerned countenance next to the bed.

  “Michael, you must get up. You must shower. And then we will see, we maybe should go to the clinic.” His tone was not the one that I customarily argued with.

  After the shower, my head still pounded, and I wanted to go to bed again. Instead, I was dragged to the clinic around the corner by an unrelenting Juan. As soon as the nurse saw my pallor, she grabbed a doctor, who, upon hearing my symptoms, pronounced me severely anemic. He ordered us to get a cab and go to the hospital immediately, or he would put me in an ambulance himself. I had been in the clinic all of two minutes at this point, and I already felt as though I had been there for hours; the agony of the fluorescents was unreal. We called a cab. Less than ten minutes after getting to that hospital, I was hooked to an IV and being wheeled to a room.

  In the end, I was laid up for almost two weeks. My anemia at the time had progressed to a level so severe that I was asked whether I had received an organ transplant in the last year. (What? Not that I remember!) The hospital I was in was amazing, though. Always half-full, that glass, always. I was on the same strip of beach as the Hotel Arts, and from the tenth floor, where I was, the view was spectacular. It didn’t hurt that I knew all the care I received was free, either. After my experience those two weeks, I had a hard time listening to people who spouted the “cons” of Spain’s socialized medical system. If I had been in the States, I would have either been sent home earlier or up to my ears with “nonapproved” service charges that insurance wouldn’t cover.

  The funniest part, maybe, was that the list of items I had Juan bring from home included not just my pajamas and my toothbrush, but my BlackBerry. While I languished and had iron fed to me through tubes, I sent my shoppers to work. I even had Luc enlist his sister as a secondary Paris connection. The first week I was laid up, I got four Birkins. Not bad for a sick guy, huh? In the United States, that alone would have proved I didn’t need to be in the hospital. (I could just picture myself hiding the BlackBerry under the sheets every time a nurse came in.) ¡Viva la España! And to the little old lady from the Perpignan train station, just in case I forgot at the time…gracias.

  26

  Capricious Life

  It had been scary, that whole collapsing episode. My doctor had said that if I had waited even another day to seek care, I could have died. And, although no one told me this right away, apparently the first twenty-four hours I had been in the hospital were touch and go. But the show must go on, as they say, and my show was a traveling one. I decided that I needed to visit a new place, somewhere I could get a couple bags along the way, but that I would essentially be enjoying myself as I “worked.” No south of France road trip, in other words. It also might have been a simple human reaction to a close call like mine, but I really wanted to go somewhere that I had always wanted to go, and hadn’t gone.

  The Isle of Capri—I didn’t know when I had first heard that name. (I did find out I had probably heard it pronounced wrong, since everyone wants to pronounce it like the name of the pants, Ca-PREE. It’s not. It’s CAP-ree. Who knew?) It was part of the lexicon of my thwarted travel; the places I’ve never been, the landscapes I’ve longed for but upon which my feet had never trod. The ones that make me pick up Condé Nast Traveler and lose twenty minutes in a bookstore as I mentally place myself into the frame of each photograph. Its mere invocation at a dinner party summoned up the dream-fed scraps of my yearning: lemons gleaming the only true shade of yellow there is, the Mediterranean lapping on the shore, the sun deliciously too strong on my back, a silk shirt’s caress on that sunburn later. Beautiful islands have always held this kind of sway over me—maybe because they are islands, and maybe because they are beautiful. And, of course, there is an Hermès there. Because, first if not foremost, Capri is the playground of the rich. Capri is the glint of priceless jewels worn with a cotton sundress, a meticulously kept lap pool overlooking an unswimmable rocky coast, a sweating crystal glass pressed against the tanned neck of an heiress. It was all this to me, and I hadn’t even gone. Time to change that.

  I spent one night in Naples, since there was also an Hermès there. Got a leather Birkin for my trouble, even though I had spent a little more money than average, crossing my fingers for a croc. I thought maybe there was something I was missing with the formula in Italy, some part of the script I didn’t know. The salesmen always seemed to be wise to me somehow; they eyed me up and down, and looked at me suspiciously through their designer wire-rimmed glasses. I wondered if it was part of the Italian business culture—this assumption of dishonesty. Could be, since Italy remains the only country I’ve ever visited where I have to pay for my sandwich before they make it for me. I was likely being too sensitive. Still, I hoped for a more exotic bag in Capri; I hated to come out of a vacation behind.

  The ferry ride from Naples to Capri was a little rough, but any feelings of discomfort quickly disappeared as we pulled up to the dock. The brightly colored boats and buildings of the harbor silently campaigned against one another for the title of most picturesque. (I was voting for the bright red fishing boat draped with nets; it made me reach for my camera immediately.) Behind and beyond the village right in front of me, sheer rock loomed, cliffs stretching up thousands of feet, interspersed here and there by stalwart vestiges of green and sprinklings of white houses. I refused to push and shove to get off the boat with the rest of the lemmings, so I waited and drank in the view and riffled through my guidebook. Apparently, my next step was getting tickets for some kind of funicular. Oh boy. What about my Birkin and my suitcase? They would be a real pain in the ass. I scanned a few more pages to see how I could avoid carrying a huge orange bag on a funicular, and found a footnote about porter service up to my hotel for 40 euros. Works for me.

  Bag-free, having handed my goods over to a hopefully honest porter (he didn’t look like the Hermès type), I got in line for the funicular. I waited about ten minutes and then found out they didn’t sell the tickets at the place you boarded. (That would make too much sense.) Went to a different building up the street, waited another twenty minutes, got my ticket, and I was good to go. The ride in the funicular was like Big Thunder Mountain crossed with a monorail crossed with a quad ski lift. It rode steadily up and up at a forty-five-degree angle, allowing a rather dizzying view downward at the harbor and the ocean. When I disembarked, I was in another town, this one the real center of life on Capri. There was another settlement—Anacapri—but that area was famed for its solitude and distance from hobnobbing masses of the island. Not really a tourist mecca, in other words. Not like the place where I stood right now, surrounded by restaurants, shops, inns, and my fellow travel
ers.

  I decided to go straight to the hotel to get settled, then I could explore at leisure. I started in the general direction of downtown, which meant I basically followed the crowd. The people around me were mostly gawking day-trippers. I assumed when the last ferry left, it would clear out the island quite a bit, like it did on Nantucket. That would be good, because it was a bit claustrophobic downtown at present. There were hordes of people seated at the tables in the Piazzetta, although why you would spend your day sitting and drinking at a hot, crowded town square was beyond me. Stucco and stone buildings crowded together and formed charming little alleys and walkways, even more winding and narrow than average, because there are no cars on this part of Capri. Between the labyrinthine paths of whitewashed buildings, the scent of flowers filling my every breath, and the sun beating down out of a crystalline blue sky, I was thoroughly disoriented in the most pleasant way imaginable. I spotted a white and blue tile—the Capri version of a street sign—with an arrow pointing me to Via Tragara, where my hotel was. I was staying at Villa Brunella, and I had that familiar nervousness that you get after having picked your lodging out of a guidebook. Hey, I was on Capri, how bad could it be? Likely not bad at all, judging by what I was seeing on my stroll. Now the highest of the high-end boutiques lined the paved walkway, all clad in matching white awnings. I mentally tipped my cap as I walked by Hermès, which was on tomorrow’s itinerary.

  As I got farther out of town, now on the Via Tragara proper, the atmosphere softened. On both sides of the walkway were wrought-iron gates, beyond which I could see courtyards overflowing with flowers; most were rendered romantically complete by stone steps winding up or down to hidden homes. The houses I could see were of more diverse architecture and color than in town, although I already knew any one of them would have suited me fine. I was thoroughly hooked. Bougainvillea draped purple over the stone wall to my left, and my walk was intermittently shaded by the oak and pine trees that hovered protectively above the path. All I could smell was flowers. The vegetation was Garden of Eden–style, lush and brightly colored and biblically dotted with both lemon and olive trees. Then the path widened up into a “scenic” area, and I really saw what Capri was. To my right was a largely unobstructed view of half of the island, the houses so far down and across from my vantage point they looked like toys scattered across a boulder. And across from me, rearing higher and higher so that it appeared to loom over all, was more of the sheer rock I had seen from the harbor, the vegetation scarce enough to appear as a transgression against the craggy sculpture of limestone that is Capri. I could see hollows in the rock the size of skyscrapers, playgrounds for the birds flying in and out, tiny white dots wheeling against the grayish brown. But it was the sea itself that was the most mesmerizing, the Mediterranean glinting impossible shades of green and blue, alternately concealing and revealing the forbidding edges of the coastline as it eased in and out with the tide. I continued along, and moments later the words VILLA BRUNELLA appeared on a tile in the wall of the building on my right. I had arrived.

  The hotel was unconventional by necessity, five levels of rooms built into the side of the hill, connected by a stairwell that looked impossibly long. The place had no elevator either. (On a subsequent trip, I was grateful they had mercifully added one—it sure was a bitch if you forgot your camera in your room.) However, I was dazzled by Villa Brunella and didn’t care at the moment how my calves might feel in a couple of days. It was a multileveled garden palace, the terra-cotta terraces projecting their flower-bedecked surfaces further outward with each level. The pool beckoned on the third terrace down, a perfect square of water, surrounded by blue-and-white-striped chairs in militaristic rows that belied their decadent sun-worshipping purpose. I also learned from the desk clerk that the floor above me housed a restaurant with a wall of windows. I assumed almost anything would taste good if eaten overlooking this panorama, so I made a dinner reservation.

  My suite was fanciful, as though an imaginative six-year-old girl had been put in charge of designing a hotel room, and her stylish mother had modified it ever so subtly, to accommodate even the most discerning of visitors. Pink-and-green-flowered tiles accented the mostly white floor, with the same floral design mirrored in the quilt. The pair of overstuffed chairs and couch were all pink to match, and my masculinity was momentarily threatened until I remembered I was gay. My Y chromosome was further comforted by the dark mahogany furniture and ceiling fans, as well as the gender-neutral white walls. Not to mention the private terrace that I spent a quiet afternoon lounging on, sunbathing while I calculated how much money I needed to save in order to move here for the rest of my life. And also, how many stairs I would have climbed by the time the week was out.

  I never left the hotel that day at all. When I finally made the uphill journey to the restaurant for my nine thirty P.M. reservation, it was full-on dark. I blinked at the entrance, catching my breath and liking what I saw. The dining room was dimly lit, with white linen tablecloths made luminescent by the candles flickering throughout the long room. Through the glass of the far wall, the distant lights of the homes of Capri twinkled, as though the dark earth were reflecting the star-filled sky. And on the most important note, the wine list immediately assured me this was a top-rate dining establishment. I settled on a bottle of Masi Amarone. Amarone wine has its origin in a winemaking technique dating from the fourth century—and they definitely have it down pat. Unfortunately, you could barely find it outside of Italy, another freaking Malbec situation. Well, I could have a bottle tonight, no point in crying into my wineglass for Amarone-less evenings yet to come. When the waiter delivered the wine, he also brought me a chunk of cheese, which he informed me was a pecorino, a Parmesan-like dry, hard cheese made from sheep’s milk, a serving suggestion from the vineyard itself. I agreed with the pairing. Mmmarone.

  As an appetizer, I had a seafood salad, whose simple name belied its profusion of top-grade shellfish and fish, nary a vegetable or a dollop of mayonnaise in sight. For those who are concerned, I did order a glass of Ruinart rosé to wash down the seafood, no red wine with seafood…of course. And this dish, nearly a meal in itself, was merely a tasty prelude to the traditional two-main-course Italian dining experience. First I had the ravioli Brunella, as I have found going with a house specialty is rarely wrong. It wasn’t wrong this time, as the tangy tomato sauce, fresh cheese, and homemade shells alone would have been sufficient, never mind the sumptuous lobster they cushioned. I went with veal Lombatine for my meat course, immediately pleased by the native white asparagus, but then even more by the tender meat it accompanied (not always the easiest thing to find in Europe). I themed dessert—limoncello cake with limoncello on the side. Limoncello is the region’s alcoholic claim to fame, a chilled lemon liqueur served in tiny frosty glasses—made from lemon rinds and sugar but with no actual lemon juice that could sourly tint the citrusy sweetness. Villa Brunella claimed theirs was made fresh on the premises, from the very lemon trees that shaded “my” patio, and two glasses later, I was more than willing to agree that it was likely the best limoncello I had ever had. Of course, between those two glasses of ambrosia, the flute of Champagne, and the bottle of wine, I also would have agreed to go skinny-dipping in the pool if the right person had asked me. Oh boy. Time for bed.

  I awoke to the scent of oleander drifting through my slightly ajar patio door, and the bright sunlight that peeked through the corners of the drapery. You can’t block sun like Capri’s; a force of nature of that magnitude finds its way in. First stop of the day—Hermès. I wanted to get my business over and done with, so I could get back to pleasure. It was unseemly to even think of money in this kind of environment. I didn’t want to play a purse pauper among the kings, that was certain. I got dressed, donned the chaîne d’ancre, and checked my pockets twenty times for my wallet and key so that there was no chance I would have to climb the stairs a second time. I walked the incredibly painless mile or so into town, and did my “thang” at Hermès, wooing t
he woman working into forking over a coveted croc Birkin, this one a particularly tasty 35cm gris pale. (Nice, although the name always struck me as a little spooky—gris pale. It means “pale gray,” but the “gris” sounded grisly, “pale” always made me think of sickly, and gray wasn’t the happiest color anyway. Still, these are not my problems, I suppose. I just sold the things.) So anyway, my work in Capri was done. Not my play, though, not by a long shot.

  I drifted through the rest of the week, more and more enamored of the island by the day. The only thought that kept me from dropping everything and convincing Juan to move here was a short story by Somerset Maugham I had read, about a guy who did exactly that. (It’s called “The Lotus Eater,” and the guy lives on Capri till his pension runs out, and he goes broke, and once that happens things don’t go so well…it’s a cautionary tale for sure.) But I was still infatuated. I adored the Arco Natural, an improbably huge rock formation whose arc framed the ocean sparkling hundreds of feet below, its half-moon of limestone seemingly defying every law of physics in the process. I was suitably awed by the Blue Grotto—the color inside the ocean-bottomed cave a shade of blue I had never seen, and likely would never see again (unless I braved the queue of boats bobbing endlessly and waiting their turn for a second time, which I wasn’t 100 percent sold on. Once really did the trick, I think). I was entranced by the I Faraglioni, limestone stacks rising right off the coast, soaring to hundreds of feet, one of them the exclusive home of a blue lizard. How could you resist a place with blue lizards that make their home on one particular gigantic rock? Huh? You can’t, that’s how. You succumb. And succumb I did, reveling even more in every aspect of Capri. I loved the downtown area as well, and made it my habit to walk to town around seven every evening and have a glass of Krug Champagne at the Quisisana, a venerable old hotel. The Quisisana was an island legend, its patio both the best vantage point to see and the best venue in which to be seen. Seven P.M. was the hour of reckoning—after the last ferry but before dinner—and it was then that I could best survey the boutiques’ wares parading by on tanned bodies. It was like watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous in real time—cheap voyeuristic thrills. I amused myself further by counting the Hermès items that made the scene.