On the Art of the Airplane Ensemble
Seasoned traveler and style writer Chadner Navarro meditates on the peaks and valleys of airport fashion and the spectrum of functional-to-fashion attire worn by the comfort-be-damned stalwarts and sweatsuit devotees.
As a style-conscious traveler, nothing gets my heart beating faster than the opportunity to people-watch in Newark Airport. The smorgasbord of head-turning specimens before me — from the moment I step foot onto the curb of departures until I board my flight — arouses a litany of emotions I couldn’t realistically expect from an Oscar-baiting Martin Scorsese vehicle. What people choose to wear to the airport has the power to both thrill and infuriate me. It’s a double-edged sword I endure several times a month.
Because I do travel, on average, every two weeks, I aspire to an airport style that I can be proud of — if only for the mirror selfies I intend to take in the men’s room. I’m not the type to rock up to an airplane in sweatpants. My outfit orbits around a linen sweater (the ideal top for the fickle nature of airplane temps), loose-fitting trousers (lightweight cotton when it’s hot, wool when it’s cold), easy to slip on-and-off loafers, and a chore jacket for layering or to ball up into a makeshift pillow. Does it sound boring? Yes. So who better to gain insight and inspiration from than the people pounding the pavement exactly as I am? In my journey to better my travel uniform, these airport stalwarts are my readymade muses. There they are: Some rushing with branded backpacks, others dressed for their destinations (how else do you account for fur in September?), and then there are those who are indeed in full sweatsuits.
Waiting to board a flight, ascribing fully realized backstories to people based on their sartorial choices can be an entertaining, time-sapping exercise. TUMI Backpack probably works in sales and is heading home to Milwaukee after a week of meetings and side-pieces. Fur is definitely an oligarch who now has to fly back to Siberia to watch over an oil refinery. And Sweatsuit has all but given up on the opinions of a judgemental 30-something regarding the proper way to dress on travel day.
My favorites, however, are those who swan around the terminal looking like they’ve just ripped the entire Balenciaga Spring/Summer 2023 collection off the backs of runway models. I applaud someone’s commitment to a “lewk” that ignores the uncomfortable demands of flying commercial. Are you strapped into a complicated Rick Owens robe-coat? I love you. Are you braving the redeye to Milan in a cropped Thom Browne suit? Go off, king! Are you power-walking to your gate in Celine disco pumps? God bless your ankles. I wish I had the chutzpah, and I hope that the wardrobe you’ve checked into the hold is as extravagant as the outfit I see before me.
That is, until you reach the security line, wrangling yourself from the miscalculated getup you’re stuffed into. Really? A wraparound buckled belt long enough to measure the diameter of the Earth? Now all the admiration and appreciation I hold for you has been replaced with abject fury. Because as much as I love the spectacle of fashion, I hate inefficiency. Also, waiting. And let’s face it. This is Newark Airport. You should be wearing stylish sweatpants anyway.
So with this vivid swirling maelstrom of leather and fabric unraveling before me, I glide unhurriedly toward my window seat, thankful that while my possibly boring, easy-to-remove uniform might not elicit fantasy nor awe, at least I’m not disrobing with a line of passengers fuming behind me. And maybe that’s all we should expect of an airport outfit, after all.
