NEW YORK. It's morning again. I find myself somewhere in Chelsea, waiting for a presentation to start and accepting Fiji water from boys wearing 50s style varsity sweaters. When we're finally allowed into Christian Cota's presentation, there's nothing to see until models march in to the sound of bamboo wind chimes and take their spots in front of backlit scrims. It's weirdly creepy staring at girls, inspecting their clothes so blatantly. Cota's collection was inspired by Santorini sunsets and Renoir paintings. The colors are fantastic: all sorbet, cotton-candy shades. A few of the plain column dresses overly rely on their hand-painted pinks, blues and creamsicles proving too stereotypically sunset. Cota, a European with a wispy moustache, knows how to do draping and there are a few beautifully frothy silk organza skirts and cocktail dresses. Those pieces are tempered by some well-cut sheaths that would make for excellent office-wear.

This is the beautiful day that they're passing out free beer in the tents. Drink in hand, furiously Blackberrying, I wait for the Luca Luca show. Two beers later and I'm watching the first dozen looks. They're all white and I'm a little bored. I want another beer. The pieces are well tailored and elegant, but for my taste, a little safe. It's Luca Luca though, so how much daring is to be expected? I'm pleased to see a few jumpsuits make an appearance. White wedge booties are more interesting than maybe they were supposed to be, helped in part, no doubt, to a model that stops midway in front of the wall of photogs and slips hers off, carrying them the rest of the way. It's a sleek show, with hair pulled into elegant top knots and well tailored pieces that look like separates but are actually simple onesies. I leave, wondering if the Luca Luca folks have thought where it might be appropriate for one to wear a floor-length white silk column dress other than your wedding.

Ah, and then the evening I encounter the strangest thing I've experienced as of yet in my New York life. For Levi Okunov's show, I'm all the way on the West Side on a pier. I'm absolutely delighted by the twilight rays and rocking boat and find it super easy to ignore the slightly pungent fish odor. The Frying Pan is a bar/restaurant that runs through the warmer months and Okunov's show is held at the back. There are plastic picnic chairs set up in rows around a makeshift plywood runway spray painted a kind of neon green. My confused face gains me rescue from a pair of guys who (this is where it starts to get bizarre) have a storied and interesting career past. William Quigley is a celebrated portraitist just asked to paint Obama who ALSO designs clothes and swimwear (Adriana Lima hasn't returned two of the one-of-a-kind pieces! Shame!) and is ALSO texting back and forth with Marc Jacobs about the latter's show this evening. His companion is nephew to Tommy Hilfiger and currently working on his online music show. Oh, before that he was a teen popstar who dated Brit Brit for a hot second and was introduced by Justin Timberlake when he opened for them. They introduce me to ever-eccentric Heatherette designer Richie Rich and then someone I think might have been Bai Ling with a single massive Vegas-inspired earring trots over.

I am feeling fully overwhelmed and very interested when we finally choose seats. Over beer, they've been telling me how crazy Okunov is and I finally get it when Hebrew prayer music starts the soundtrack and a video of a dreadlocked naked girl twirling in a field is projected onto a screen over the stage. The clothes are, I guess, what you'd expect from a Hasidic Jew you've heard is crazy. The models have leaves in their hair and on their wrists; Hebrew tattoos are on their upper arms and have faces painted either a Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-nauseous green OR a Willy-Wonka-Violet-Beauregarde-blueberry-blue. "This is awesome. This is how New York used to be," said Quigley, smiling, and only too happy to clap along with the crowd who are singing like it's a Jewish wedding. The last piece down the runway? A gown with what's got to be at least a 10-foot train, bunched up in the front to above the knee. It's extreme (and perilous, with tulle dragging on rough plywood and a rickety plank).

Feeling a little dazed by all the woodsprite-ness of Okunov's show (and possibly a little sick from all the boat's swaying) I make my way home for some much needed rest.

LA2DAY writer Leah Melby will continue to update from New York Fashion Week.

CLICK HERE TO READ LEAH'S DAY THREE COVERAGE.