Parting kisses: Favourite things from Paris

Show: Alexander McQueen—and I wasn’t even present. Too sick that night to crawl from bed, I—and thousands upon thousands of other obsessives—watched McQ’s first live-to-air catwalk on Even from afar, I was spun in, so totally entranced by his entire underworld of alien warrior princesses. (And those shoes! The most wondrously physics-defying footwear since Theyskens’ heelless hooves for Nina Ricci. Which was just last season…but still.) Magnificent in scope, meticulous in execution, it was a show to write home about. Unless you were already there.

Showroom: Pierre Hardy’s graphic shoes were displayed in his former apartment in the canals. And when I say apartment, I mean double-wide spiral staircase to heaven: all cloud-white, gilded and curlicued, with a hearth full of womens’ oxfords and wooden floors that make heel-clicks sing.

Front-Row Star: Mary-Kate Olsen at Giambattista Valli. She did the craziest thing, you guys. She smiled.

Overheard Honesty: Carine Roitfeld to a pair of acquaintances, upon exiting the Louis Vuitton show: “Well, at least it’s the last day.”

Party: Infamous fashion eccentric Diane Pernet DJ’d disco-pop at lesbian cabaret Chez Moune last night. I can’t think of any words to make that sentence more awesome. Can you? If only I’d kept one of the fake Pernet headpieces they were handing out to her uber-fans: black cardboard “top knots” with mini-veils.

Party Track: “Empire State of Mind” filled the dance floor at every fashion hangout I went to—even Sir Paul McCartney, partying with Stella at a St. Germain club, swayed to its undeniable charms—and it still won’t leave my head. But I love it: a Jay-Z jam about “New York, New York, New Yo-o-rk” was the unofficial song of Paris Fashion Week! It’s like having a McDonalds at the Louvre! Which…is also happening.