Wow…what a day. What. A. Day. After hopping off the train, changing outfits in the Penn Station bathroom (not something I’d suggest to any others thinking about such a feat, by the way), and practically floating my way down to the Avenue of the Americas, I finally reached it: Bryant Park. The home of the famous white tents and New York Fashion Week. Where the rich and skinny hobnob with designers and financial backers and all sorts of stylistic trends are determined that will affect who wears what from Bedford-Stuyvesent to Boise, Idaho. But without a coveted pass, no one enters the doors of the tents. So, everybody kinda stands around waiting for someone or something interesting to happen. It’s singularly phenomenal, actually. There were two men right standing just next to the DCGF and they were discussing the ridiculousness of it all, without quite being able to tear themselves away from the possibility of catching a glimpse of the famous ensconced within the sacred tents. There are dozens upon dozens of Ordinary Joes milling about Bryant Park, but nobody seems to know the secret formula to getting in, besides those lucky few who run up the steps with a massive plastic tag around their neck.

I was tremendously amused by all of this hustle and bustle, because right across the street was a wholly different view: namely, that of a building under construction, with all the concomitant noise and clutter that goes along with such work. In the time that I spent gazing upon the entrance to Bryant Park, three to four ambulances and fire trucks passed by, rendering any conversation impossible. In between, regular taxis (those that weren’t on strike) honked fervently at every green light and bicycle taxis rang their bells to beckon pedestrians with tired feet. The noise and grit of the city was unmistakable, as was the somewhat sour smell that so many associate with New York. Especially striking was the juxtaposition of the pristine white fashion tents and the dusty black and navy framework just across the way; this amused me greatly. Here are the great style makers of our time, presenting their brilliant creations on the other side of the street from a dime-a-dozen cell phone store and a boarded up office space, while sirens wail, horns blare and average people walk around in averagely cool Ray Ban sunglasses. But, then again, this is New York City, after all.

Tonight, I attended a fashion blogger’s lounge at the Original Penguin store in Herald’s Square and it was…okay. Sponsored by, the “lounge” afforded an opportunity to shop the store at a discount (which I did), drink free wine (which I did), and pick up a swag bag (which I definitely did) – one of the hallmarks of fashion week. Swag bags are infamous at events like this: they have a bunch of free stuff from various brands and are designed somehow to persuade the recipient (me, in this case), to purchase more of their products in the future. I doubt this will happen, but I appreciate all of the skin care, hair care, and uh, pamphlets, I received.

Well, I’m getting sleepy…finally. It’s all been terribly exciting so far and there’s much more to see and do tomorrow (today?) when I hit up the Goodwill Retail Stores in Manhattan. Stay tuned for more fabulous fashion factoids and maybe even a pic or two of the rich and famous! Until then…