"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 chatchat and discussed the new French collections, which she 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 Hermes 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, and 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 Steeves 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 hope 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 Hermes 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 bleu 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/chaine d'ancre interaction, the only adjustment I made to that combo was the shawl color - I went with my new fuschia 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 Hermes 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 director of Hermes women's ready-to-wear. With all his white hair in all that Hermes orange, he looked like nothing so much as a Creamsicle, albeit an expensive one. I bet he wasn't wearing an Hermes 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 Hermes world really was. It turned out she was the woman who had sold me the "reserved" crocodile at the Hamburg Hermes 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 Hermes 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 Hermes."
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 Hermes 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-aggrandising 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 uber-tan, they honestly made him look Photoshopped. He finally begged off and headed in the direction of the Creamsicle......
Michael Tonello's books on Goodreads
Bringing Home the Birkin: My Life in Hot Pursuit of the World's Most Coveted Handbagreviews: 122
ratings: 585 (avg rating 3.96)
ratings: 585 (avg rating 3.96)
