Touchdown in Dubai, baby. I landed on two hours of sleep—just enough rest to legally operate a tricycle and nothing else. I stepped off the plane and straight into what felt like the mouth of a dragon. It was 104°F. Before 8 a.m. I don’t know what I thought desert heat would feel like—spicy? crisp? cinematic?—but this was tactile. It felt like the sun was mad at me, personally.
Despite the sweat pooling in places I won’t name, Dubai was giving. Sleek towers stretched into the clouds like SIM cards for billionaires. The roads hummed with Lamborghinis in muted tones. Everyone I passed on the street outside the Burj Al Arab on Jumeirah Beach Road had that look—like they’d just stepped off a yacht, or were mid‑text with someone who owns one. Yes, I’ve read the Reddit threads. No, I did not get arrested. And yes, I did see someone in a full fur-lined hoodie, sitting in a Bentley with the AC blasting, then getting out and walking with absolute intention into a Starbucks. This place is theater.
I was driven to the Four Seasons Jumeirah. It smelled like quiet wealth and artisanal incense. The kind of place where everything is marble and no one raises their voice. My room had six types of lighting, two robes, and air conditioning so effective I felt reborn. I would’ve married the walk-in closet if given the chance.
Soon after, I met up with the Zegna press team and a crew of American menswear editors: GQ, Esquire, V Man, Highsnobiety—basically the Avengers of well-cut pants. I hadn’t met most of them before, but they were warm, quick-witted, and fully down for some light, fashion-adjacent debauchery. Our first lunch was at Sea Fu, where the dim sum was so good it briefly silenced a table full of people professionally trained to overtalk each other.
Then came a field trip. We were supposed to head to the Dubai Mall, but were instead mistakenly dropped off at the Armani Hotel, which meant a charming little march across blistering pavement to reach the correct location. My personal highlight: watching one car crash into another, followed by a police response within seconds. I’ve never seen law enforcement move that fast except at a Vogue party.
Arriving at the Dubai Mall, I entered what can only be described as capitalism’s final boss. Jamie’s Italian. Wagamama’s. Bloomingdale’s. Chanel. Dior. The biggest Maison Margiela boutique I’ve ever seen. A store selling plush Labubu toys for $80. I touched one. I bonded with it. I put it down. With visible reluctance. The mission? To ascend the Burj Khalifa via the “On Top” experience. The elevator shot us skyward, ears popping, equilibrium questionable. At the top, I stared out across a sci-fi skyline that looked half Blade Runner, half screensaver. I almost bought a fedora that said “Burj Khalifa.” I didn’t. But I wanted to.
That evening we had a dînatoire—a chic word I took to mean “light food, light dress code.” I showed up in a Marc Jacobs Heaven hoodie covered with teddy bears and the word “Hardcore” across my chest. Everyone else looked like they’d been styled by Roman emperors. The head of Dubai Tourism made a beautiful speech. So did the Zegna team. I stood by the canapé station inhaling bite-sized lasagnas, saffron risotto, and tiramisu cups like I was on a cooking show with no judges. It was exquisite. I went to bed full of carbs.
We kicked off the morning at the Museum of the Future—an enormous silver torus etched with Arabic calligraphy, filled with immersive exhibits on AI, climate, and what life might look like on Earth (or elsewhere). The building itself, shaped like a giant abstract eye, looks like it might transform into a sentient being at any moment.
Lunch was at Gerbou, a refined Emirati restaurant tucked into Alserkal Avenue, Dubai’s modern arts district. The interiors were all curves and clay tones. We were served an edit of locally sourced dishes: dips made with black sesame tahini, roasted pepper and date; a lemongrass and ginger broth that smelled like a wellness retreat; and mains of chicken, rice, and an ambitious tuna curry I politely bypassed.
Back at the hotel, my Zegna look was still MIA. So I swam. I baked in the sun. I ordered room service—fettuccine Alfredo, criminally good. And then, finally, it arrived: a rich chocolate brown wool two-piece—oversized pants and a matching jacket with just the right amount of drop. There was also an experimental vest, which I vetoed immediately (sorry). Instead, I paired the suit with my Cowboys of Habit tee and brown Asics. Suddenly, I felt like a post-minimalist poet who makes his own vermouth.
The Dubai Opera was fully transformed into Villa Zegna. The space was filled with sand, stone, and desert flora. Staff wore khaki short-suits that looked like luxury boy scout uniforms. I wanted one. Badly. The show itself felt like a mirage you could wear. Alessandro Sartori delivered a collection rooted in texture, movement, and memory—pajama-striped suits, washed poplin layers, and action-shouldered outerwear in featherlight wools and technical silks. Some models walked barefoot, moccasins in hand—a detail I flagged early as key to the shot. “Feet are, like, so back.” It grounded the whole collection, both literally and emotionally.
Sartori described the collection as having an “earthy allure” that masks a deeply considered design process. The inspiration was a simple image of clothes piled on a chair—lived-in, loved, and ready to be worn again. “The stratigraphy and the casualness suggest a life lived intensely,” he said. “As designers, we do half of the work; the rest happens when clients interpret the pieces, day by day.” That sense of personal, instinctive dressing—what he calls “a proper and insouciant manner”—was everywhere in the collection. These were garments meant to crease, to fade, to evolve with you. Effortless, earthy elegance—clothes designed not just to be seen, but to be lived in.
The spectacle opened with James Blake performing “Séance” live. Just him, a piano, and the quiet gasp of hundreds of international editors suddenly feeling things. He returned at the finale with a partially improvised piece that built slowly into a crescendo of sound and emotion as the models re-emerged. Afterwards, I spoke to the musician. First impression: tall. Second: lovely. “What’s the first thing you do when you land in Dubai?” I asked. “Run as fast as I can to air conditioning.”
We talked about Zegna. “I love how they put as much obsessive detail into their clothes as I do in my music,” he said. His favorite look? A full grey layered suit with what he thought were crocodile loafers. “There were a couple of checked onesies that I loved, too.” He also revealed he’s working on a new album. “It’s coming soon. I actually just pushed the release date back yesterday, so… not that soon. But soon.”
That night, we had dinner at Fouquet’s. Fashion editors loosened ties, unbuttoned shirts, spilled secrets. There was a lot of laughing, maybe a few emotional confessions (mine), and just enough martinis to make the whole thing feel a bit Wes Anderson meets The Hills. I Irish exited with dignity (ish), already dreaming of the massage and facial I’d booked for the next afternoon. Dubai, you did the most. And if Zegna’s clothes are meant to carry the imprint of experience, then consider me fully worn in.