I’m All Lost In, #93: IAD at 6 am; heroic water misters; Reagan fashion revival.
I’m All Lost In…
the 3 things I’m obsessing about THIS week
#93
1) Dulles International Airport
Dulles Airport, 6:15 am, 7/21/25
For me, airports symbolize melodrama. I’ve long longed for that great airport moment, a tender goodbye (like the “far freakin’ out” moment between Peter Parker and Mary Jane in Amazing Spider-Man #143) or a joyful hello. Kinda had one with XDX picking her up from Beijing last summer. And did I have one last week at the Sea-Tac light rail parking lot?
It’s 2001’s Dr. Heywood Floyd on his layover at Space Station 5 en route to investigate Clavius Base. It’s Case in Neuromancer en route from Istanbul to the Villa Straylight on Freeside. I wanted to have it in 1989 picking up my then-ex on her way back from England. No luck. I witnessed my mom’s tears when we dropped her dad off after his sweet visit, probably his last, from Israel in the mid-1980s. There was the time a high school pal picked me up after my first semester back from college. I never really had one with my parents, and only really remember the time when they were getting old and increasingly confused and couldn’t find me at the arrivals gate.
I wax about my airport longings in plenty of my poems. Here are excerpts from a few…
…I flew to an airport made of parks/
and ponds and hiked to the stargazing area.
•••
“When the line to the airport opens, it will be the end/
for multiple routes being discontinued.”/
At this very airport, decades ago,/
I knew possibility for the only time when/
a school friend met me at the arrivals gate holding/
a courteously wrapped gift./
I now know possibility is another word for psychopomp
•••
7) After the airport, at home, we throw our coats/
over the chairs and stand in the kitchen/
under fluorescent lights before sitting down at the table
•••
Go to the airport without any explanation
•••
the magnitude of airplane wheels retracting >/
> pavement irrelevant.
•••
Wayfinding: JFK Airport to Diana’s sister’s apartment
Descend into New York’s ascendant skyline > AirTrain > the 8th Avenue Express toward Ozone Park > Hoyt-Schermerhorn > it’s late > exit at 59th > step toward the river > the hospital > the high school of sky hooks > food truck at the corner of 60th & Columbus > eat dinner on wiseacre infrastructure > Home (the apartment is your younger sister’s) > stay awake on the couch watching the History Channel > Cyrus the Great captured Babylon in 539 BC > an open city > he preserved its ziggurats.
All of this to say, I love Dulles International Airport. I landed there at 5:40 on Monday morning after a red-eye from Seattle; I visited my elderly mom in suburban Maryland this week. It may just be that the airport is relatively empty at that tranquil hour, but the clear signage, logical layout, hushed walkways, mellow lighting, effortless trajectory to the baggage claim, and seamless subway connection are IBM-immaculate, mid-’60s-mod and 22nd century cybernetic aesthetics all at once.
Dulles Airport, 6:20 am, 7/21/25
Dulles Airport Metro station, 6:35 am, 7/21/25
2) Cooling Down at Mubadala Citi DC
I took advantage of my week in DC (suburban Maryland) to trek into Rock Creek Park on Thursday for a day’s worth of pro-tennis action at the Mubadala Citi DC Open (pronounced moo-BOTtle-lah as opposed Moo-BAH-DAH-LAH as the Slavic tennis star ladies pronounce it on Instagram and TikTok.) It’s a 500-level tournament. So, while most of the big names were not competing, there were a few Top 10 players and a crew of exciting challengers on hand. At a county-fair-sized tournament like this, I was able to get up close. So close that I could see the beads of sweat falling off No. 36 Leylah Fernandez’s face onto the court as she aced World No. 4 Jessica Pegula on her way to major upset in the 90 degree DC heat.
Leylah Fernandez at the Mubadala Citi DC Open, 7/24/25
Tennis legend Venus Williams, Mubadala Citi DC Open, 7/24/25
However, this item isn’t about my endless obsession with the WTA. It’s about the 90-degree heat and the heroic industrial-sized water misters that tournament organizers strategically placed at every nook of the outdoor complex. Nirvana for overheated spectators suffering in the blaring, simultaneously crisp and muggy sunshine.
Gaggles of enervated tournament-goers huddled around these hydro Shangri-las, entranced human bodies going immediately limp in euphoria as the palm-frond-sized fan blades whirred with mechanical grace. Coupled with a blue razz lime icee, misters are a source of earthly bliss I hadn’t previously pondered nor given their deserved due.
3) Reagan Fashion Reboot
Speaking of tennis, I’m seeing women wearing tennis dresses everywhere in NYC. Apologies to my New York friends for not saying hello, but after spending time in DC with Mom, I took Amtrak up to Manhattan for a quick, personal getaway weekend. One fashion observation from this trend-setting capital of the sartorial: The same staid style that ruined the 1980s—think women’s high-waisted stone-washed jeans—is back. It’s not high-waisted jeans specifically; I haven’t seen many of those. But an athletic, clean cut, country club look has taken hold.
I can only surmise that just as boring aesthetics accompanied the reactionary Reagan era, the MAGA backlash against anything that hints of counterculture has similarly given way to a homogeneous retrofit. It’s characterized by pleated tennis skirts, activewear sets in neutral colors, tiny floral prints, and ironed polo shirts.