It is unclear whether Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones kept their legs uncrossed ...

“Please return to your seats!”

The typical orders were barked from the front row at Michael Kors on Wednesday, September 12 at 10 a.m. Too much too early. Due to some recent Team Kors PR shifts and rifts, we couldn’t locate the familiar faces that would help The Observer with its conquest. Where were Savannah and Lauren to sneak us past the testosterone-pumped security forces void of interpersonal skills who guarded Michael Douglas, Catherine Zeta-Jones and recent Tony-winner Nina Arianda? Yes, it’s true that I, personally would have accosted Ms. Arianda because she was so fabulous in Venus in Fur, but do Broadway stars really warrant a detail to watch cotton blazers and crepe gowns sashay up and down a walkway for 10 minutes?

“Sir, I’m sorry, but you need to take your seat please!” growled the plus-size security goon, leaving me no choice but to traipse back to section A, pondering how on earth he knew my name was “sir.”

So how, exactly, are editors who don't publish the redundant proclamations on trends for their glossy readership supposed to get those juicy interviews we so rely on for cushy page hits? Or even modest news appeal?

As we waited for the show to commence, the only thing deflecting our disappointment at missed interview ops was an unfortunate Michael Kors visuals production staffer kicking us from behind with his obnoxiously pointy boots.

“Uncross your legs and please push in your bags, ladies and gentlemen in the front row!” screeched the photography pit repeatedly. (I don’t mean to get all political ... maybe it's fine for the ladies, but frankly, forcing 200 men at a fashion show to uncross their legs sounds to me like a gay rights issue!)

Hoot, holler, belt they did, until they deemed the runway bony-leg- and Céline-bag-free enough to their liking.

Knees stayed firmly together as look No. 36 walked down at Michel Kors.

Finally the production began, and thankfully our misery was quelled within the first four looks. Mr. Kors trod the familiar  with American sportswear, this season with vague waves at the sport of golf, and crisp and clean nautical references—all with a wearable ’60s touch. Get your stripes now, people! First Marc Jacobs had people just shy of orgasm with his Edie-meets-’60s contemporary pieces, and Kors too laid the stripes on thick. Especially memorable was a studded navy plunger shift dress, which had edge. The collection had more European commercial appeal, a smart move as the now-colossal brand expands more there and in Asia. One sky print on tops and dresses was created from a picture Michael Kors had taken himself. And for evening? Mr. Kors kept things signature and simple with body-con crepe dresses with geo cutouts. As Karlie Kloss prowled down the catwalk, our seatmate whispered, “Crepe never looked sexier!”

It was true. And the punchy color palette was a stylist’s dream. There were pocketing and stitching details that added value and youth … perhaps a bit too much, said a few. The Observer overheard Jamee Gregory commenting to another UES Queen that she actually liked the youthfulness of the collection, “It was very nice, actually,” she said before debating a swim upstream to kiss-kiss Mr. Kors backstage; as this editor watched her go, he crossed my legs.

“I’m wearing Lanvin,” she said in an exaggerated French accent, perhaps a remnant of Fashion Week reverie. Indeed, Ms. Weaver was one of many gowned sophistiquées packed into the main atrium of the Public Library appraising a mannequin clad in traditional Kazakh bridal wear. Despite their dapper bow ties and rarefied dresses, none of the evening’s patrons or patronesses—Jonathan and Somers Farkas, Aselle Tasmagambetova, Domenico Vacca and Eva Lorenzotti among them—could rival the richly embossed, regal red jacket or the towering silver diadem sitting atop the faux bride’s faux cranium. We had never seen anything like it, we realized.

By birthright, we have long since focused our global gaze on the lands of our Western European kin. While we can recite the name of every English monarch onward from Edward the Confessor and have traced the lineage of French aristocrats in the Sorbonne’s hallowed halls, we are sometimes startled by the sheer vastness of the world outside our forebearers’ ambit. The smattering of post-Soviet states in Central Asia is, to be sure, a part of the world as foreign as the moon to the chaste European ego, and until very recently we counted ourselves among the unenlightened majority who confused Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan. Since the “Discover Kazakhstan” gala last week, however, at least one country in the region has been illuminated, no longer a dark spot on our mental map, which has always counted the Greenwich Meridian as its primary point of reference. We were pleasantly surprised. As were others.

“I was just so impressed by how cultivated the people were, how elegant, how much they loved the arts, and frankly how little Americans knew about them,” Ms. Weaver confessed. We admitted we were one such American. “It’s a horse culture because it’s a nomadic culture. They are so strong and tall and elegant and beautiful,” she said, listing her strongest impressions from a recent trip to the country. “Tonight, people are going to get a taste of Kazakhstan.”

And taste we did, a lamb dumpling and a grilled shrimp steeped in some unfamiliar herbal marinade. Drinks in hand, guests and deferential waiters wended among the glass cases showcasing the evening’s main attraction: brilliant Kazakh jewelry. In conjunction with Christie’s and the Nomad’s Way Project, a charitable endeavor of the Saby Foundation, several top jewelers had crafted sumptuous cameos inspired by historical Kazakh designs. Interspersed among the contemporary creations were indigenous pieces dating back hundreds of years.

Like most of the evening, we found the designs beautifully foreign. The silver-heavy pieces tended to have horizontal inclinations, not vertical ones like the familiar pendants of European provenance. One robust item particularly caught our eye: an antique chandeliered necklace, composed of massive silver plates that could have been worn only by a noble neck with muscles specially trained to manage such imperial hardware. Cultural vocabulary translated directly to the realm of jewelry.

After a wave of guests sashayed briskly in our direction, speaking languages we wish we understood, we realized we were standing next to Jacob Arabo, better known by his professional handle, Jacob the Jeweler. “I am Uzbek. I was born and raised right next door,” he said, offering a welcome geography lesson. “Basically for me, this is like my home, this is my family and this is my people,” he said, surrounded by a throng of satisfied customers and companions.

A gong’s brassy ring sent guests downstairs to the Celeste Bartos forum, where an elegant scene was arranged. “If I folded one of the tablecloths up and put it in my purse, do you think anyone would notice?” Jamee Gregory gabbed gleefully. We didn’t know the answer, but it was apparent that the blue and white décor, from the tablecloths to the chair covers, was perfectly suited to the occasion. Evoking a sort of Venetian glow, the byzantine designs captured the interface of East and West.

We spotted Caroline Kennedy, wearing a jacquard jacket with a vaguely festive geometric embroidery, who admitted she had never been to Kazakhstan. The region, however, fascinates her. “I went to Central Asia for my anniversary last summer. We went to Uzbekistan, but I want to go back now to Kazakhstan,” she said. We wondered why so few Americans seem to know about a country with so rich a history. “There’s a lot of things we don’t know about that we should, and this is one of them,” she said, evoking her late father’s ardent internationalism.

Sitting down at our table, we found our tablemate greatly impressed by the spread. “This is really a throwback,” she drawled. “They don’t throw parties like this anymore.” Indeed after several lively conversations (not to mention a duck confit lentil soup and an herb-crusted rack of lamb), we were feeling a variety of satiation not generally experienced at benefit dinners. Guests circulated the room between courses, finally settling back into their seats for the auction.

Guests were generous, very generous, to Kazakhstan. One particularly ornate diamond necklace was sold for $250,000. By the end of the evening, more than $1 million had been raised to support arts education in the nascent country. The crowd was jubilant, ebullient and tipsy from wine and Kazakh vodka.

After a performance by R&B popper Robin Thicke (who, in an homage to Fashion Week, kept his sunglasses on throughout the set), guests said cheery goodbyes and collected their coats.

On the way out, we managed to speak to Kazakhstan’s ambassador to the United Nations, Byrganym Aitimova, who suggested that her country may not be so very different from America after all. In both places, she posited, hospitable people abound, and a fierce sense of proud independence pervades the culture, adding, “I would like to express my observance here in New York that the similarities are much more than the differences.”

eknutsen@observer.com

Chairman Gary Parr and Gala Co-Chairmen Lady Linda Wong Davies (Linsley Lindekins)

In traditional Chinese culture, the dragon is an auspicious creature, venerated as a symbol of wealth, imperial power and social prowess. Since 2012 marks the year of the dragon, according to the Chinese zodiac calendar New York society dutifully fêted the felicitous occasion with a grand party.

Lincoln Center (as ever) was aflutter with people as we approached. It was one of those non-winter winter nights the city is accustomed to of late, when gloves are jettisoned and coats left unbuttoned. Throngs of people were sitting around the circular fountain, likely exceeding the maximum weight anticipated by its designers. Loathe to be present for an impromptu mass baptism, The Observer headed inside to collect our tickets.

By the time we fully arrived at the New York Philharmonic’s Chinese New Year concert, guests were already on their second flute of preshow Champagne. Red, a propitious color in the Chinese tradition, was the prevailing hue of the evening. Indeed, the room was a vision of black, white and red, between the tuxedoed gentlemen and their crimson-clad wives.

Jamee Gregory, Noreen Buckfire, Corinne and Maurice Greenberg, Gillian Miniter, Wendy Deng and Gary Parr were greeting their friends. By our estimation, about half the women in attendance wore customary cocktail regalia, while the other half donned dresses inspired by Chinese vestments—admittedly with varying degrees of aesthetic accuracy. From Szechuan cheongsams to abstractly oriental kaftans and saris, the ladies’ livery was a sight to behold.

“I’ll be your little concubine!” Deborah Norville squawked with delight, as she greeted Wilbur Ross, who seemed a bit taken aback, in his own set of Asian duds.

“Oh! You did it! You did it! You did it! Isn’t this fun?” enthused Karen LeFrak as she embraced Mr. Ross, one of the few men audacious enough to wear traditional Chinese robes, those lordly silken habits of the ultimate leisure class. The black-and-red ensemble was purchased on a recent trip to Shanghai, Mr. Ross told The Observer. Looking down, we noticed Mr. Ross’s slippers, each adorned with a single Chinese character. “They say happiness and love,” Mr. Ross offered as his wife, Hilary, approached.

Donning an elegant red dress of decidedly Western extraction, Ms. Geary Ross proudly brandished a bejeweled Panda clutch purse. “The pandas secretly want to be dragons,” Mr. Ross said with a slightly downturned grin. Unable to divorce our Anglo sensibilities, we bemoaned our own Chinese zodiac sign, the snake, wishing that we too had been born a dragon. “Oh, every year is auspicious,” Mr. Ross offered said with Confucian prudence.

Soon, attendants were ringing bells with latent insistence, ushering people inside the concert hall with their sonorous chimes. What followed was an innovative series of scores, played with largely Western instruments but capturing those lithe melodies of Chinese music. A league of Mongolian youth choristers took the stage in traditional dress, performing a series of folk songs with musical accompaniment from the Philharmonic orchestra. The children, some barely old enough to stand still, sung with poignant clarity, earning massive applause from the audience. Finally, piano virtuoso Lang Lang appeared onstage, effortlessly executing a complex Liszt concerto. The program ended as the Mongolian youth chorus reappeared on stage, singing “America the Beautiful” with Lang Lang’s accompaniment.

After the performance, crowds meandered out of the amphitheater. Guests seated at the gala dinner found their tables. We found our seat, and, noticed we were sitting next to China’s deputy representative to the United Nations, Ambassador Wang Min. We asked Ambassador Min his thoughts on the performance, and, after a few gruff answers he inquired whether or not we were a journalist.

We noticed Sandy Weill appear in the dining area, and taking momentary leave of the ambassador, asked him about the performance. “Oh, it’s phenomenal, it’s uplifting, it’s just great,” he gushed. After chronicling the Chinese cities that he has visited over the years, Mr. Weill explained that he has high hopes for the year of the dragon, specifically “the world getting along and cooperating and working together.” We’ll gladly raise a glass to that, Mr. Weill.

Returning to our seat, we noticed that Ambassador Min had switched places with his wife, Madame Ren Hui. Despite the initial sangfroid, we convinced the ambassador that we had little interest in communism or free speech, ultimately achieving détente over a discussion of college admissions. Before the evening was through, The Observer had made an ally in Ambassador Min, who offered us traveling tips should we venture to China ourself.

To be sure, conversation in the room largely focused on Mr. Lang, a certified piano prodigy widely regarded as one of the great musicians of our time. Finding philanthropist Oscar Tang across the room, we asked what he thought of Mr. Lang. Mr. Tang, as it were, knows him intimately. “We have a dinner for the New York Philharmonic every summer, so he’s had dinner at our house and so forth,” he said in a serenely soft tone. “It’s a great pleasure to have him.”

Lady Linda Wong Davies similarly praised Mr. Lang, explaining that he has become an important figure in both the cultural and musical realms. “He’s a great ambassador for classical music, number one, because he’s young he’s fun and he’s cool, and number two for China,” she said from her perch at the table, with becrystaled Jimmy Choos cast aside and evening gown tickling the floor. “He’s beyond being Chinese I think.” The entire evening, she said, was an exercise in globalized understanding. “I think it’s a great display of cultural diplomacy.”

Moments later, we saw the piano man himself, sporting a sparkling gold sport coat. Despite his florid finery, Mr. Lang was humble and insouciant when we asked him if he considered himself a cultural ambassador. “That sounds good! That sounds very good!” he said with a laugh. He was less interested in his own performance, however, than the children’s chorus. “They were so cute!” he cooed. While Mr. Lang may not have been the stiff-necked classical pianist we anticipated, his hands unquestionably belonged to a master of the ivories.

With his baby-soft grip in our own, we realized we were holding, quite literally, a multimillion-dollar appendage. The year of the dragon, we decided, would be a good one. Auspicious, indeed.

eknutsen@observer.com

"The very rich are different from you and me," Fitzgerald insisted, and if Hemingway had been a New Yorker, he would have replied, "Yes, they have nicer apartments." Not just nicer, to judge from Jamee Gregory's sumptuous coffee-table book, but exponentially nicer-so much nicer that it's really not nice at all to think about it.

Envy is desire torn in two directions, admiration and malice tugging against each other. The malice makes envy bitter, and the whole tussle makes it ugly. But even if you're envy-free, you're bound to have mixed feelings about the 27 gorgeous apartments gorgeously photographed in the pages of this book: They're sublime, grotesque, appalling, irresistible. Who needs a Park Avenue penthouse triplex with wraparound terraces? And who wouldn't want it? Would you playfully tuck a pair of Claes Oldenburg sneakers under the inlaid 18th-century library table in the front hall of your 7,500-square-foot Fifth Avenue apartment? Why not? And that chrome Jeff Koons train set on your mirrored dining table-should it be headed straight for a silver model of Barbara Hutton's Mexican hideaway? All aboard!

The text of New York Apartments: Private Views is a catalog of extravagance studded with swank words like alabaster, ormolu and damask-and the equally rich absurdities uttered by the apartments' owners, more than half of whom wisely chose to remain anonymous. Two "European-born philanthropists," happily ensconced in their Fifth Avenue duplex, boast with one breath, "We brought six men here for six weeks to French-polish the library!"; and in the next, "Everything in this apartment has a meaning. Nothing is for show. That's our style!" Another anonymous owner houses "an astonishing collection of ancient sculpture" in a deliberately "understated and subtle" apartment: "We were among the first to see the beauty of beige."

Georgette Mosbacher has nothing to hide; she takes us right into her "dressing room/beauty salon": "My exercise machine came recommended by Arnold Schwarzenegger. He demonstrated it to me at Camp David." Carroll Petrie's newly decorated dining room is "glazed a pale pink"-"Most flattering to the skin, don't you agree?" Designer David Netto drapes a cow-skin rug over a jute carpet in his Washington Square flat and smugly surveys the result: "Very Halston, don't you think?"

There's a random array of boldface names, each one attached to remarkable real estate: Joan Rivers (23-foot ceilings, lots and lots of gilt); Charles Gwathmey (an impeccably beautiful 2,500-square-foot loft); Beth Rudin DeWoody (cheerful art clutter, dazzling East River views); Marty Richards (a master bath that's "an exact copy of Napoleon's tent, painted on glass," though Napoleon, who wasn't a famously garrulous Broadway producer, probably wouldn't have needed the wall phone by the Jacuzzi); Lisa Perry (a hilariously mod pad: "Austin Powers meets Barbarella"); Robert Wilson (an insane museum: Marlene Dietrich's shoes, Neolithic Chinese ceramics, a brass chair by Donald Judd-all crammed into a Tribeca loft).

The book's a hodgepodge, like most of the apartments ("Russian ivory pagodas and an Irish Georgian sideboard complete the room"). And yet the common denominator is a kind of unshakable conviction: These rooms, however eclectic the constituent parts, look exactly the way the owners want them to-an effect only money can buy. Lots and lots of money.

It's enough to make you think that Proudhon missed the mark: Property isn't theft, it's grand larceny.

Adam Begley is the books editor of The Observer.