photo courtesy of Hermes
I’ve never been a person of precision; don’t really follow recipes exactly when I cook (pinch here, pinch there, and then I wonder why it doesn’t always taste the same or…good) or always take the most exact route somewhere. Things become even more challenging when there’s metric conversion involved. For example, while setting up the treadmill here, I confused 2.2 km for every 1 mile with the actual 1.6 km (it’s 2.2 pounds for every 1 kilogram, isn’t it?) and then wondered why it took me longer than usual to pass the measly 2-mile mark. But at least in my conversion confusion I managed to run a bit more than I’d planned on, which then turned out to be a very good thing since that day ended with another case of food coma…
Do you suspect that I am really moonlighting as a food critic in Europe? Er, maybe not, but sometimes some good Thai food really hits the spot.
But OK, what’s with the first photo, you ask ? Well, after several disappointing visits to the few Hermes boutiques around here, all I managed to bring home was the winter catalog cum magazine,
which has some very nice articles to practice my reading comprehension. But alas, it is that photo on page 70 that requires no French language skills to appreciate its essence:
So they’ll continue to tease and tempt and torture me with these exotic Birkins…with none available for purchase. I still want the “boutique experience” with the first Birkin, so there’ll be more unhappy store visits until the right one comes along. And I suppose when it does, I might have to take it with me even on the treadmill!
Today’s entry’s title is rather timely, based on my last post and a recent comment from my dear reader, D. She recounted a bittersweet story about her own hunt for the Birkin and unfortunately, it’s not the first time that I’ve heard from people who have not been treated well by the orange house. I always thought cash was the common denominator that leveled the playing field in most economies, but apparently some vendors still see shades of currency and don’t even bother to disguise their contempt for certain buyers whom they feel may not deserve to spend money in their stores. I know, shocking. It’s 2011. Consumers are tightening their belts–the level of customer service should be at an all time high. Ok, enough soapboxing. Let’s get to the real adventure I want to share with you today!
The month was March. The date the 19th. This year. People remember birthdays, anniversaries, phone numbers. Me, I remember inception dates. What do I mean by this? Well, they’re dates when ideas germinate, whether it’s for business or for pleasure. In this particular case, it was the date when my virtual bff from Kuala Lumpur and I conspired to land me a very limited edition Chanel flap that was to be released just for Malaysia. To be honest, the chatter surrounding this bag was back in early February, but we didn’t really fixate on the idea until that fateful email in March. Almost exactly five months later I was tracking its voyage online as it crossed the Pacific this past weekend and cleared customs yesterday then finally arrived here today…
I paused and exhaled before I took it out of its sleeper bag. I’d only seen a few spy pictures of it, so this was definitely do or die time for me. Would it be as amazing as I imagined? Would it be love at first sight?
Move over orange, Malaysia Exclusive is here. Birkin who 
?
The tweed versions were released globally, but I knew it’d be the pale champagne leather for me. The whimsical enamel charms of this Secret Garden flap make the bag fun and dressy at the same time.
Check out the butterfly charm attached to the chain strap…
and the logo-ed ladybug on the lock:
Can’t wait to put together some looks for this bag!
Tags: Birkin, Chanel, Hermes, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia exclusive, Secret Garden flap
I’ve written before that I envy one VB (Victoria Beckham aka Posh Spice) not only for her staggering Birkin collection but mainly because in any paparazzi photo of her circling the globe, she always, always looks like she’s just stepped out of a salon wearing an outfit worthy of the red carpet. I’m not at all celebrity-fixated but I often think about how it’s (im)possible to be more put together on the road, like her, when sometimes the road is not so glamorous. Case in point: I arrive at the Krakow airport in the early evening…
and follow the signs on the floor, as in the first pic, to find said train (by now in pitch black) that’s on a lonely, uncovered platform…
After being chided in Polish by the train conductor for not having exact change for the ticket–though I don’t take it personally because he is grumpy with all of the other tourists who also give him a big bill that we’ve just all pulled out from the ATM!–I still manage to make it to the city center, where I try to find my bearings by landmarks I’d noted on my phone but cannot really make out in the dark…
So what would VB do? Well, of course she wouldn’t be standing in the middle of some place without an entourage to whisk her to her hotel, with her hair frizzing out in all different directions from the humidity like yours truly. But right now the only thing that will whisk me anywhere might be a mugger so I stay close to the well-lit streets till I find some big hotel that’s always near the train stations. Luckily, the concierge knows where my hotel is and shows me on the map. I do have the general directions from Expedia, where I booked my hotel, but good luck looking at tiny street signs in the dark when you don’t know how to read the local language. Anyway, it’s probably a five-minutes walk from here, but in the dark, in a foreign town, time stands still until I finally reach it.
As I get out of my wrinkled clothes and wash my dirty face–well, I don’t know that I look like a sweaty chimney sweep or anything, but I’m from car-obsessed LA and any time I succumb to public transportation I feel a little dirty…but I digress. So as I wash my face and get in the shower, I think about all the times I’ve experienced the un-glamour of travel. From sitting on a truck with no shock absorbers in wet shorts to slushing around a flooded Venice without rain boots to sleeping in a fetal position on a night train with strangers who were eyeing my bag…
I’m still laughing about these memories as I get into bed (but not before checking for bed bugs) (which I think we should all do regardless of where we stay). I can’t always travel like VB, but glamorous or not, I love the unexpected from the road. And tomorrow is another day. Can’t wait to see what’s out there.
Tags: Birkin, Krakow, Victoria Beckham
*Both photos here courtesy of Lyndsey Chong. I blame her and all other enablers who feed my insatiable appetite for Chanel.
I belong to an online community that gabs about designer handbags. More specifically, I hang out in the forum where we discuss ad nauseum all things CHANEL. Now I may already have my fair share of Chanel goodies in my closet and have challenged myself to a total shopping ban in ‘09 (well, before you congratulate me on my restraint, the ban is in anticipation of an exotic Birkin somewhere in the near future) (can’t wait till I go orange, but I digress…), I still love looking at the pictures posted by other members of the forum. Pictures of new bags as they are released. Pictures of old bags from beloved, past collections. Pictures of shoes, RTW, accessories. If it’s Chanel, I have to look. Yes, it’s worse than a train wreck. I rationalize the time spent at this forum as research. No fashionista can do too little research! And truth be told, it’s eye candy that stimulates my brain while I’m sleepwalking through conference calls in my day gig. Did I just say that out loud?
What spurs me to write about the above bag, however, is the fact that it stopped me dead in my tracks as soon as I saw its photograph. And I usually pass on all things girly girl. But the color is delicious, especially on that buttery lambskin. The limited edition Valentine charms on the classic chain are just trop adorables! Go with me on this: I see myself in a voluminous, pale blue linen sundress, a pair of camellia sandals on my feet, and a silk scarf around my neck. I’m having a good hair day as I sit on the back of a vespa (cue the wind machine), zipping through Ibiza on my way to meet Uncle Karl for a late lunch. You can see this sweet little purse dangling on my shoulder, can’t you? Ok, first of all, I know I need to stop talking about Karl Lagerfeld like I’m some kind of a stalker. Like I know him or something. This is already his third mention in my two-months-old blog, but it’s impossible to talk about Chanel without referencing the man responsible for turning this couture house into an 800-pound gorilla that toys with our affection, even in these economic times. And second of all, I need to stop with these scenarios that run through my head every time a bag catches my fancy. You’ve seen my travel pictures. Is it really realistic that I’d bring such a high maintenance bag on one of my many adventures?
OK, so where was I? Right, we were in Ibiza on a sunny day. The problem with this whole fantasy sequence is that I see my own face and the voice in my head gasps; it’s asking me if the bag is age appropriate! Since when did I become the age police? Sure, fashion police is fine, but age police? I rewind the tape in my mind and look again. And yep, I’m sure I’d look pretty ridiculous carrying a bag that’s more suitable for someone half my age. Does fashion have an expiration date? Let me rephrase that: do I have an expiration date when it comes to what I should not wear? Aging is not my strong suit, and I feel faint.
Living in LA is a lot like living in a trompe-l’oeil. You will often see a scantily-clad, hot body with bleached hair, but as soon as she turns around you may see an overly Botoxed sixtysomething living in denial of the reflection in her mirror. If I’m glib in writing that, it’s because I, too, can fall just as easily into that sand trap. We are youth obsessed in this town, and if we pretend not to see the inevitable signs of aging, we can be 19 forever. In our own minds anyway. But am I being anti-feminist if I don’t cheer her on to fight society and dress as she pleases? Do I cringe in equal amounts if I see a man dressing much too young for his age? Though I’m not sure what qualifies as dressing overly youthful for men…are we talking about skinny jeans here? But isn’t fashion about dressing as one pleases? It’s one of the few pleasures left in life that won’t cause cancer…right?
I always shudder when I see the editorials in fashion magazines that recommend what’s appropriate to wear in your twenties, thirties, forties, etc. I just have a problem with age setting a limit on fashion because for some of us, by the time we can afford designer garb, we are already outside of those demographics. And setting an expiration date on some looks smacks too much of censorship. I want to say fashion should empower us; we should apply only one rule in fashion: live and let live. But in spite of my love for the freedom of expression, I think sometimes it’s OK for me to listen to the voice inside my head to assess the damage from Mother Nature and cut my losses. And dress appropriately. So as much as I’d love to collect this lovely bag, it’s past my expiration date.
Having said all that, let’s look closely at the charms, shall we?
Do you see the one that says Bonne Chance (“good luck”)? As in good luck finding this bag. Good luck trying to baby a light colored lambskin bag. Good luck trying to un-snag the charms from your clothes. Good luck making up a million more excuses to not love this bag. Good luck getting this bag out of my head. Sigh.
Tags: Birkin, Chanel, expiration date, Fashion, Karl Lagerfeld, Valentine
