Isolating in Soviet style: It’s nyet for me

Fashion Week New York is the cat’s meow. The jumble I once covered in Moscow is the dog’s poop.

Place: The marbled walled Sovetskaya Concert Hall.

Invitees wore babushkas, sensible walking shoes, sturdy brown or gray coats.

My parachute-shaped guide’s breakfast: “Fruitwater” juice, glass of sour milk, oatmeal-like kasha, two boiled eggs, coffee and a bun. She was eating light.

“Russians find no crime being stout,” she said. “We are not so lazy as Americans who jump into their automobile. Few here own cars. We are forced to walk more. The USSR has no weaker sex.”

One lady swilled vodka neat, laced with black pepper, washed down with beer. Her companion: “The trick is eating plenty bread and butter first. Butter as a coating sponges up any alcohol. The penalty for drunkenness is severe. Your name’s placed last on the list for an apartment.”

The fashion show: Women in Sochi, the resort, swam in bras and panties because of few swimsuits to purchase. One hot item showed a brocade evening gown plus matching coat with fur hem and cuffs. “These will be mass-produced,” intoned the directress. I asked how many will be mass-produced. She said: “Twelve.”

They come with any accessory — like a hat or bag? “No.”

Understand, we are not talking any Dolly Parton look here.

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