As I approach 30, people my age all seem to be getting married or running quarter-life-crisis marathons. While I'm not much of a runner (and haven't touched Strava since Covid), I did challenge myself to a different kind of endurance test last weekend – one that thankfully left my toenails intact, and instead featured eight dates in two days.
This article is part of The Brussels Times' dating series, which includes columns and interviews with experts and members of the public on all matters of the heart.
Since you last heard from me, reader, my dating life has been resoundingly unsuccessful. And after blubbing my way through my best friend's beautiful wedding back in the UK at the end of June, I decided enough was enough. It was time to up the ante to avoid slowly sinking into Bridget Jones-style spinsterhood. A date marathon was in order.
I had an unusually free weekend, so I set to work, aggressively swiping, digging into my dating app graveyards of matches gone by, and brazenly asking people out in my first message. After a flurry of responses, I ended up with eight eligible bachelors. Surely if I went on eight dates, at least one of them would turn out okay?
'At least you're not doing 10'
A couple of friends knew about my ludicrous weekend plans, and couldn't believe what they were hearing. "At least you're not doing 10. Then you really would want to end it all," one said. "You'll have to finish your drinks a bit quicker than the usual two hours it takes you then, Vivs," another replied.
My time management skills and drinking speed would indeed be put to the test. What if I wanted to spend an extra hour with one of them? How would I space them out evenly to give them all a fair shot? I decided everyone deserved at least 90 minutes, and if I wanted to stay longer, I'd suggest a second date.
On Saturday morning, I headed out bright and early to meet my first victim for brunch at Honest café, strolling through the sunny and tranquil Forest Park en route.
João* and I were kindred Mediterranean spirits, and both arrived 10 minutes late. We gradually eased into it, but it was a bit stilted at first – not helped by the fact I misunderstood his Portuguese pronunciation at one point and thought he'd said his "hound" had walked the Camino de Santiago, rather than his aunt.
Walking through Forest Park en route to date one. Credit: Isabella Vivian / The Brussels Times
After brunch, I set off for Montgomery to meet Pawel* from Poland. In his Bumble bio, Pawel said he'd plant a tree for every swipe, so I, being the (naïve) eco-queen I am, thought I should oblige. But after a stroll around Cinquantenaire with iced coffees in hand, it was clear we hadn't hit it off: he described EU postal regulation as "exciting"; I was not convinced.
At this point I was bouncing off the walls from two strong coffees – but no rest for the wicked! Off I strode to the city centre to meet Michiel* at Mappa Mundo.
Michiel was a charming banker from Mechelen, and my jaw dropped when he told me he'd bought a flat there 12 years ago. "Wait, how old are you again?!" I asked, acutely aware that I had not committed my matches to memory and shocked at his financial stability – something I can only dream of. "Thirty-six," he replied. "Phew," I thought.
For all that his Flemish charm and bank account offered, though, I sadly didn't feel any romance with Michiel either – and started feeling antsy when he asked me about my evening plans... so I darted off to date four.
Rounding off the day
Despite having had just one (yes, one) beer, I was feeling a little buzzed by this point. But there's nothing like a pre-date pint to ward off the nerves.
For my final date of the day, I used Breeze – a relatively new app which only gained traction in Belgium a few years ago. With Breeze, you match with someone but can't send messages: the app sorts a time and a place.
Our location was the Comic Sans bar opposite Wolf Food Hall. The staff were friendly, but the dimly lit interior and games machines lining the walls didn't scream romance for me.
Comic Sans bar in Brussels, the location for date four. Credit: Isabella Vivian / The Brussels Times
At least the slightly unconventional date location was a conversation starter, though. As was the fact that my date reminded me that we had matched twice on Hinge before. "Third time lucky then, I guess?" I awkwardly laughed.
Now on my fourth date and second beer, my ability for small talk was swiftly dwindling. But I remembered someone at the wedding the week before striking up a conversation with this zinger: "What's the most dangerous thing you've done in the last year?"
I blurted out the same question to my date, hoping for a funny answer – having forgotten that he was from the Middle East. "Going home during the Iran war," he said. "Oh right," I replied. "Mine was going to be a skydive."
Shortly afterwards, I tipsily wandered home in the golden hour light, passing shrieks of joy and incessant car horns at Morocco's stunning World Cup win against Canada. I was exhausted but satisfied with my day's work.
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That night, my zombie made another unexpected reappearance – as all old flames seem to do when you start dating other people – and asked me to meet him at a bar in Brussels at 02:00. At this point, I think he just enjoys featuring in my dating columns.
Sweet but psycho
Date five awaited me at Place Flagey on Sunday morning. Paul*, from Namur in Wallonia, had written "50% romantic, 50% psycho, 100% ready to date" on his Bumble bio. Bodes well, doesn't it?
Intrigued, I swiped right – but decided to meet him in broad daylight to avoid a Patrick Bateman scenario.
As I approached the packed square, my date messaged to say he was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans – not the most helpful description. We ambled around the Flagey ponds before getting pastries at one of the market stalls, where I got chatting to an Ecuadorian trader.
"¿Él no habla español, verdad?" ("He doesn't speak Spanish, right?") the man said, nodding at the 50% psycho next to me. I shook my head. "Bueno, el amor es lo más importante," he replied. ("Well, love is the most important thing.")
I hurriedly informed him that we were on our first date and it was a bit soon to be talking about love.
But Paul did know the way to a woman's heart: "I'd always rather make a joke than try to seduce you," he said in a thick French accent at one point on our walk.
The Ixelles ponds in Flagey. Credit: ArcheoNet Vlaanderen
When questioned about his bio, in true finance bro fashion, Paul told me that the market was competitive, and he needed to find a way to stand out. He had certainly achieved that – with the exception of his dress sense.
Paul said his weirdness attracted women, and he claimed he could write anything on his bio and still get matches – even if he called himself a serial killer. "You're quite confident, aren't you?" I said.
Things went downhill when we got onto the risky topic of politics. Among other things, the fact that the French-speaking Belgian said he'd vote for the Flemish nationalists in the next election baffled me.
It was clear by this point that a second date wasn't on the cards, and given how unfazed he was by my slightly cutting jokes, I thought I'd confess what my weekend plans were, and tell him about the date marathon. "That's so cool!" he replied.
The final stretch
Paul's parting words to me were, "Good luck for number six! I hope he's the best!" And off to Saint-Gilles I went to see what bachelor number six had in store.
Sadly not much, as it turns out. This time, we were on the same page politically – but that's pretty much all we had in common. He said his most controversial opinion was that Apple was overrated. I raised an eyebrow at this, upon seeing his iPhone on the table and Apple Watch on his wrist.
Pam Pam on Place Châtelain. Credit: Isabella Vivian / The Brussels Times
The final stretch was now in sight. For date seven, I met Álvaro* at a bar in Châtelain, and in true Spanish fashion we spent most of the time talking about food and drink. Unfortunately, Álvaro lost points when he confessed he made a cup of Earl Grey by infusing warm milk with a teabag. Blasphemous.
Over the course of the date, I asked myself: did I fancy him, or was he just Spanish? It was hard to tell. By the end of our beers, however, I decided he was not the Juan for me.
Date eight! This was also from Breeze, and to my relief, the games machines were nowhere to be seen at La Belladone in Saint-Gilles.
Louis* was also from Namur, and we were quickly reminded that this country really is too small: within minutes, we worked out that a former flatmate of his is one of my close Belgian friends. But despite the mutual connection and shared political values, there was once again no spark.
Date eight at La Belladone in Saint-Gilles. Credit: Isabella Vivian / The Brussels Times
All in all, the marathon was pretty unsuccessful on the romance front. But it wasn't a failure – far from it.
After being ghosted, zombied, and generally messed about by men in Brussels, it gave me hope that the right man was out there somewhere, who could make me laugh like Paul but with the values of Louis, and Álvaro's love of food (and maybe even Michiel's financial stability, if I'm lucky).
None of these eight men was right for me, but they'll be right for someone, and given the kindness and respect they all showed me, I think they'll make eight women very happy in the future. My own search isn't over, and I haven't given up on dating in Brussels (yet) – but, for now at least, I think I've earned a well-deserved break.
If you have a story to share about dating in the city, get in touch! i.vivian@brusselstimes.com
*Name has been changed to protect the speaker's identity.
