Are you sad and single and dreading this upcoming Saturday? You've come to the right place!
As The Brussels Times newsroom's resident single correspondent, I have been tasked with the extraordinarily heavy burden of writing about dating in this city. So here I am, at the ripe old age of 27, channelling my inner Carrie Bradshaw.
Where does one find love in Brussels? Locking eyes with someone on a STIB tram or when passing through the aptly-named Kunst-Wet metro station (also known as Arts-Loi) can only get you so far. A more obvious choice for a chirpse might be spending a Thursday night at the infamous, hormone-fuelled networkers' dream "Plux" next to the EU Parliament – though you're more likely to end up with a business card than a date.
So, like many others, I have resorted to the apps for love (or at the very least, to make my rent cheaper). And after several years of experiencing both dating app addiction and fatigue, I have concluded that the Belgian capital pales in comparison to its French counterpart, the "city of love".
Sure, there are plenty of people to choose from in Brussels, but I couldn't help but wonder...are they all the same?
Gym bros and Belgian bobos
There are the shirt-and-tie EU types and the bobo Belgian types (who all, by the way, seem to have a mammoth moustache and a little hoop earring). Then there are the techno DJs, who can fall into either category, the Flemish men looking for Flemish women, hippie baristas, gym bros and corporate lawyers.
I went for a drink with one such lawyer recently. Unfortunately, the lack of romance felt by either party was such that, while in the toilet and desperately thinking of something to say upon my return, the most I could come up with was: "It's quite warm in here, isn't it!" A swift "nice to meet you!" and hug goodbye followed, and that was that.
Brussels' diverse mix of cultures is a blessing and a curse in the dating world. You meet people from all over the world and learn about their home countries and customs, but the linguistic and cultural barriers can also quickly become apparent.
I'll never forget a date back in 2022 with a Flemish man from Leuven, when, over dinner, he told me, in true 'When Harry Met Sally' style, that men and women could never just be friends.
He then went on to say that he had no female friends but had "been with lots of men". By this, he meant he had lots of male friends, but I – never one to miss an opportunity to make a joke – said "you never mentioned you were gay!" I was quickly told I was being homophobic, and I think it goes without saying, reader, there was no date two.
Anyway, men and women can be friends, as I found out all too awkwardly on a date with an Indian engineer who said, "I'd love to be friends if this doesn’t work out, but I'm still looking forward to seeing where this goes on a romantic level!" Needless to say, we became friends shortly after.
Sometimes it's not so much the language barrier that's the issue in Brussels, but rather memory loss, such as when a French man forgot to mention he was in an open relationship until we were two drinks in.
Signed, sealed, blocked
Another universal issue with the apps – which is not limited to Belgium – is that there is no accountability. Like the man from faraway Watermael-Boitsfort who cancelled an hour before we were due to meet because he was hungover and it was "too far to come". In my humble opinion, the solution is simply not to move to Watermael-Boitsfort.
There was also a Spanish journalist from Bumble who said he was looking for a "life partner" on his profile. We arranged a time and a place to meet, but then he proceeded to block me out of the blue the morning of the date.
When I saw him pop up on Hinge a week later, I was filled with glee and didn't think twice about sending him a link to a website on dating app etiquette. (I do hope he's reading this.)
Sometimes, I'm the one doing the blocking. (Who knew a simple "hi" could result in a dick pic reply?)
Getting past the first message is the biggest struggle in most cases. A final tip for the boys: don't start your first message with "hey", or "damn you cute". You will not be getting a reply.
A personal favourite was from a Belgian recently, who started our first conversation with a snowflake emoji – nothing more, nothing less. I'm still not sure how to interpret that one.
Maybe I won't die alone?
But it's really not all doom and gloom. With two ex-boyfriends off the apps, I'm living proof they do actually work (even though I find this hard to believe most of the time).
And maybe it's just great marketing, but I'm a firm believer that it takes just one good date to change your whole outlook and restore confidence in the apps, and luckily, I've just had one of those. So maybe hope is not lost after all…
Whenever I'm feeling glum about singlehood – usually after logging onto Facebook and seeing seven engagements and three newborn babies on my feed – I refer to Belgium's beloved Jacques Brel: "Being single is the state in which one can have the most hope: one has everything to conquer. It is the future with a capital F."
So, maybe being single isn't so bad after all (except on 14 February).
If you have a story to share of dating in the city, get in touch! i.vivian@brusselstimes.com
