We made our way to the 13th for the Galliano show last night.

Our cab driver dropped us off in the middle of the anti-fur gauntlet, “Ass-ass-in / Gall-ian-o.” One of us was wearing fur and bolted. The other lingered to Twitter a picture. We walked through security gates into a heaving crowd waiting for entrance to the venue - we were already ten minutes late.

We squeezed our way in between Lady Bunny, Carine Roitfeld and a sequined Balmain jacket - we had to stick our hands in our pockets not to reach out and touch the shoulders. But “in” was only a holding cell, and so we lingered by Milla Jovovich and talked about the fancy portable toilets.

They let us in and we thought, this must be what all those abandoned factories in Greenpoint look like on the inside. So we sat and watched the Times editors and Vogue writers hug their scarves around themselves. Rachel Zoe’s Brad gave Robbie Myers a kiss hello while Rachel posed for the cameras and her husband tucked into the back. Everyone was freezing and it started to snow.

Roxanne blared and a parade of hoop-skirted Russians came walking through the tunnel of blue and green light. They wore lace-up boots with tassels, coin-covered scarves, and corseted jackets. The last few virgin brides wore sheer white gowns with silver jewels and intricate head pieces. Editors choked and cried and coughed, but gleefully enjoyed the spectacle.

The girl next to us grabbed our arm and exhaled, “Now that is what fashion is all about.”