High Line, Hilfiger and Holy Cow, He’s on Time!

Everything about fashion week sounds glamorous in theory. But before you know it, you're running after cabs with the hem falling out of your Marni dress and the glint of a safety pin clearly visible despite your best attempts to hide it. Monday. Blecch! I've had better days.

I begin this posting with a report from a champagne and caviar event to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Calvin Klein company. I wish I could tell you that I had a tete-a-tete with the current designer, Francisco Costa, but I could not locate him in the crowd of five zillion. The party took place on the yet to be completed High Line, which is an urban part atop an old rail line. The views from this highrise park are gorgeous -- if you overlook the Mobil gas station -- and you feel like you're in a little oasis in the middle of the city. The pathway through the wild flowers -- and the roses trucked in for the evening -- was lit by lanterns and waiters passed champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Apparently this wasn't enough to keep the jaded fashion folk entertained as I heard a bit of grumbling about how boring it was.

I have to admit that it might have been nice to have the party connected to the show or for there to have been a band to give you the feeling that the "event" had happened. But I have to say that it was awfully pretty and a nice reminder to stop and literally smell the roses, enjoy the champagne and take it all in.

I popped into the Tommy Hilfiger studio Monday afternoon for a preview of the collection that he will show on Thursday. The theme is relaxed glamour and the approximately $1,000 navy gown I saw was quite sophisticated and swank.

Hilfiger is also working on a Bravo show about American icons that will air Oct. 4. He promises that the show will in no way, shape or form morph into a reality competition in which contestants have to spin on their heads for a chance to fetch him coffee. Instead, the show is meant to celebrate the quirky and iconic elements of American popular culture.

I was rushing from Hilfiger's digs to the Proenza Schouler show because getting a cab proved so difficult and I do not travel through NYC with a car and driver, although I have no shame in throwing myself on the mercy of those who do. (Thank you, Conde Nast.)

So I get to Park Avenue and 63rd and dash inside to explain to the woman at the desk that I don't have my invitation. She says, Oh don't worry, just go on in. She's being so nice that I'm immediately suspicious. Such an easy-going manner? How unfashion-like! She realizes that I'm perplexed and says, "Aren't you here for the wine-tasting?"

Now I'll admit that for a split second I was tempted to inquire: Bordeaux? The fashion show was at Park and 67th. Whoops. Frankly, had I known those Proenza fellas were going to put sequined jumpsuits on the runway, I'd have snagged a bottle of pinot -- the better to make all that '80s fashion go down.

And finally. Marc Jacobs. He started on time! Two seasons in a row. Go Marc! Rock on with your muscled-out, creative, punctual self. The timely start, however, meant that people were rushing to their seats at the last minute, the terror of missing the show palpable as the crowds surged forward. Bodyguards were pressing in. Publicists were tumbling. Feet were being crushed. And I got pushed off my share of the bleacher and knocked between the knees of the nice man behind me who, alas, was not some hunky actor or a mogul or even a dude with his very own car and driver.