Bringing Home the Birkin: My Life in Hot Pursuit of the Worlds Most Coveted Handbag
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Bringing home the Birkin : my life in hot pursuit of the world's most coveted handbag
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Right now there is no transportation to the eBook shop. The books in an eBook shop can be downloaded immediately, sometimes for free, sometimes for any fee. Then, like the madman I occasionally was, I started laughing. Who was I kidding? Pros and cons?
I never should have watched those asinine Tony Robbins infomercials—I think they altered my brain chemistry.
With the Michael Motivational Method, it all boiled down to five simple words: I fucking loved it there. Life was too short for list making and excuses. After all, millions of people live in Europe; how difficult could it be? We were sitting at The Mews, our favorite watering hole, and I think she assumed someone had slipped a Mickey in my margarita. After all, she was used to my incurable optimism and flights of fancy.
To me, this was a fluke to end all flukes. But when I told Kate, instead of being floored by my good fortune, she simply laughed and calmly ordered another round. I guess when your brother was Beaker on The Muppet Show, weird becomes relative. I sipped my fresh margarita and dropped the subject. I had a house, and in Provincetown, a three-bedroom ranch like the one Kate and I shared was the equivalent of a castle.
I guess it was only fitting—Kate was lovingly nicknamed the Empress by the locals. Her late brother, Richard, was an original Muppeteer and had owned an unpretentiously stellar beach-side home on the bluffs of North Truro a scant few miles from Ptown. Everyone assumed his untimely death he had been taken far too soon by AIDS had made Kate a wealthy woman.
In reality, all it had made Kate was heartbroken. But instead of wallowing in grief, Kate decided the best way to honor her brother was to carry on his legacy of kindness and generosity. She never let on to most people what his death had cost her—an empress always holds her head high. I was more than honored to play her court jester.
It was this dynamic that made our life together in Ptown so exceptional. Our biggest disagreement was usually about who would play us in the movie version of our Ptown years—I was holding out for James Spader, she Dyan Cannon, but the debate was ongoing. And, besides my comfy quarters, just living in Ptown was a luxury.
There were only three thousand of us townies, versus the sixty thousand day-trippers who made the trek to the tip of the Cape on an average day in August. I secretly reveled in the sense of privilege that accompanied staying after Columbus Day, and in being one of the only witnesses to the scope of season in a town ruled by ocean.
This may be slightly less than honorable, but I also loved sitting next to the radio on Race Point Beach on Labor Day, enjoying one of the last days of summer and hearing the reports on the miles of traffic backed up on the bridges that led off the Cape. But truly, there is an austerity to the winter bleakness of a tourist town, and a ghostly specter of summer that makes the wait for spring bearable. If you have borne the chilling winds and gray skies and white capped views, you know yourself more deserving of the easy charm of June, July, and August.
I never tired of knowing that on any given night I could brush shoulders with Norman Mailer or Michael Cunningham. But I was starting to have qualms about the impermanency of life there, maybe a reflection of my late onset of adulthood.
Book Bringing Home The Birkin My Life In Hot Pursuit Of The Worlds Most Coveted Handbag
Everyone I met was on their way to somewhere else. At one time this had been exciting, but now it just made me wonder—where was I going? Despite our conversation the other night, I could tell she had still assumed I was taking a sabbatical, not becoming an expatriate. My Lord, just how long are you planning to be gone? I almost responded sarcastically, something along the lines of Forever, hopefully. But when I glanced up from the box I was packing and saw the look on her face, I immediately bit my tongue. Judging from her forlorn expression, Kate needed a hug, not a funny rejoinder.
I suddenly felt sad too, not just for her, but for us.
Kate, you know I will always come back to visit…but I think I really need to do this Spain move. I tried to sound as gentle as possible, but firm too. I could sense that it was going to take everything she had to accept the end of our years together. Accustomed to being surrounded on nearly every side, not only by icy Atlantic waters but by a warm circle of friends, I would miss it here. My days of wining, dining, and carousing at the Atlantic House were almost over.
They nearly killed me with a never-ending stream of chemical toxins ingested nearly nightly at all my favorite bars around town. The weeks flew by in a blur of bubble wrap and bottles of bubbly. Andy Warhol had his fifteen minutes, John Lennon had his lost weekend, and I had my summer of living in oblivion. But when crunch time arrived, I realized something else that summer too.
I went on a rampage through the house. I Dumpstered, I divvied, I divested. In the end, I stashed my remaining worldly possessions into a U-Haul storage facility. Boxes and boxes of books and photographs, enough designer clothing for a runway show, a couple dozen pieces of Roseville pottery, miscellaneous antique mahogany furniture, and my two Martin Friedman oil paintings were crammed into the tiny space. Hey, I needed to be creative; I was still ironing out my financials.
Standing there looking at it all stacked like cordwood, I took pause. As George Carlin puts it, it was just stuff. But it was my stuff, and none of it was going to Spain. Oh well, in for a peseta, in for a pound. I returned to my car already sold , where two jumbo suitcases sat in the trunk, bursting at the seams with all the Prada, Ralph Lauren, and Jil Sander I would need for the time being. I hoped Barcelona was as ready for me as I was for it. I needed to get an apartment.