Baecation

You may recall in my last story, I briefly mentioned my beautiful, blue-eyed Belgian sweetheart that I met in Nice. Our brief fling unintentionally blossomed into something more, and I couldn’t decline the invitation to visit him in Belgium a month later.

Dictionary.com defines "baecation" as: any vacation spent with your bae, otherwise known as your romantic partner. This is also not quite taken with your "boyfriend," but rather whatever you call that pre-relationship phase, sometimes referred to as a “situationship.”

This was a quick two-day trip to see if a ‘vacation boyfriend’ could turn into a ‘real-life boyfriend.’ It also happened to be his birthday. The plan was for me to fly into Brussels on Friday morning, spend a few hours touring the city, and then drive to Knokke-Heist, where his family has an apartment by the sea.

I arrived at Madrid-Barajas Airport three hours early because I refused to miss this early morning flight. Unfortunately, Iberia had other plans for me as I was placed on standby due to an oversold flight. Along with 11 other unlucky passengers, I didn’t make it onto the 9 a.m. flight to Brussels and was left to fend for myself in the mile-long customer service line, full of angry passengers.

Luckily, I made friends with a very kind, 40-something Latvian man who kept me company during the two-hour wait. I finally received my ticket for the next flight to Brussels, which, unfortunately, wasn’t until 4:40 p.m.—seven hours later. At least I got a compensation voucher, though 125 euros now seems far from enough for my troubles.

I spent those next seven hours with my new friend in the Iberia business lounge, so I’d sound like a brat if I complained too much. I was well-fed and generously wined to help ease my increasing anticipation for the weekend. My bae was very patient and understanding, even though we were going to miss his Michelin-star birthday dinner reservations.

Nine hours after this whole debacle began, I finally landed at Brussels Airport, and the nerves hit me all at once. It felt crazier and crazier with every step I took toward the exit gate, where he was waiting to meet me. Only knowing him for a month, I was really operating on trust, good vibes, and a crush.

He greeted me at the gate with a nervous smile, and I instantly felt a rush of relief and excitement.

After a long drive through the Belgian countryside—passing large windmills, fields of grass, and quaint, fairytale-style homes—we arrived.

I soon discovered that in Belgium, even if you miss your Michelin-star dinner, you don’t have to worry about finding another excellent restaurant. I cannot emphasize enough how high the food standards are in this country.

We managed to get a late-night, last-minute reservation at a restaurant within walking distance. 'Ugly Duckling' is an Asian fusion restaurant with an intimate vibe inside.

For those who aren’t aware, Belgium allegedly has some of the finest cuisine Europe has to offer. At first, I assumed my boy was just being prideful about his country—until I tried it. Every restaurant was excellent, and I mean that wholeheartedly. If I were Belgian, I’d totally be a restaurant snob.

My favorite thing is sharing lots of plates at a restaurant so I get to taste a variety of what they offer. We did just that, ordering the duck bento box, complete with paintbrushes for some artsy plating.

Throughout the evening and into the next day, we kept looking at each other in disbelief that we had resumed our romantic weekend—only this time in another location, another country, and on his home turf. It was such a strange yet comforting feeling to be with him again after a month of phone calls, waiting for this moment. Everything felt exactly the same, yet better with the addition of his actual presence, something FaceTime just can’t replicate.

After a spectacular dinner and quite a few glasses of wine, we were exhausted and called it a night since I’d been awake since 5 a.m. I felt a bit bad and even offered to go out, given that it was his birthday, but I think my presence for the weekend was a gift enough. As it should’ve been, because it’s both terrifying and brave to take on such an endeavor as a baecation so quickly.

The next morning was spent sleeping in, recovering from the long travel day, and getting to know each other without distractions. In the afternoon, he took me to Brugge because he thought I needed to see at least one Belgian tourist destination since I missed the Brussels portion of the itinerary.

The town we were staying in, Knokke, is a local Belgian vacation spot, often described as the “Hamptons of Belgium”—but without the tourists or Americans and not much English. I was, without a doubt, the first American girl from Oklahoma to spend a weekend in Knokke.

Brugge is a fairytale town, stuck in medieval times in the best way. The 20-minute drive led us into what Belgians call the “Venice of the North,” with canals offering boat rides throughout the city.

Upon arrival, we strolled romantically through the town, with medieval, castle-like buildings surrounding us. We visited a few old churches while my personal tour guide gave me a historical rundown of Belgium.

With a nickname like “Venice of the North,” I knew I had to go on a boat ride through the canals. We joined about 20 other people on a small boat for a ride through the water, looking at the river views of the mystical homes. The official tour guide gave us historical facts in English, Dutch, and German.

As an actual tourist spot in Belgium, unlike Knokke, I got to try some "authentic" Belgian waffles covered in Belgian chocolate, which were, unfortunately, very underwhelming. He blamed it on the tourist trap and said he's had better waffles at the train station. So, I’ll give it a pass until I can try a better one.

After our romantic afternoon in fairytale land, we returned to the sea for our last night together. Back in Knokke, we biked to a beach club for a drink before dinner and a very important viewing of the Belgium game in the Euro Cup.

Thankfully, he had two electric bikes at home for us to ride, and it was quite funny trying to bike for the first time in six years. As they say, it was just like riding a bike—I immediately got the hang of it, especially since the electric bike does all the work for you.

At the beach club, we were harassed by the scariest group of people you could ever encounter: teenage boys. They looked to be about 14 and were harassing us for speaking English. Like I mentioned earlier, an American in this part of Belgium is quite the spectacle, and these kids were intrigued.

They asked him if I was his girlfriend, and at that point, I found myself wondering the same thing.

The boys knew as much as I did about where our relationship was going, a conversation we hadn’t had yet. Thanks to them, I had an easy introduction into the elusive “what are we?” conversation.

I gathered from his reply that no, I was not his girlfriend, just a friend (the word "no" is pretty universal). I felt a strange pang of resentment because maybe, for the first time, I thought I wanted to be.

As we walked into the adorable beach club, with white-painted wooden benches and tables sitting right on the sand, I waited for my boyfriend, friend, lover—the man who had me stuck in relationship purgatory—to return with my limoncello spritz. 

We had a couple more drinks before heading to our dinner reservation, a 10-minute bike ride away. Dinner was at a Belgian-Mexican fusion restaurant called Blanco. The restaurant had an all-white, modern interior, upscale and romantic, and we were seated between two couples. I could tell this theme was going to haunt me for a while. We had a delicious meal: red wine, Wagyu carpaccio, tuna tartare, and passionfruit jalapeño oysters. These oysters were the best-dressed oysters I’ve ever had, and I don’t say that lightly. As an oyster snob after two summers in Nantucket, I was thoroughly impressed.

Inevitably, after a glass of wine, I brought up the conversation again, but we came to no logical conclusion. I still had to go back to the U.S. for the summer, and even if I stayed in Europe, he would still be a two-hour flight away. Ignoring the painful goodbye that was looming in the morning, I swallowed my pride as we shared the delicious tacos al pastor.

Dinner ended abruptly as we hurried to catch Belgium playing Romania in the Euro Cup. As a newbie to soccer—excuse me, football—I learned that this tournament is a big deal, evidenced by the hundreds of people gathered in the town square to watch the game on a giant screen. We drank and celebrated, double-fisting beers at some points because it was nearly impossible to order without shoving through crowds. It was a huge celebration as Belgium beat Romania 2-0, and the party continued until the early morning hours. We eventually tired out and walked across the street back to his place before my flight the next morning.

The next morning, exhausted and feeling low about my departure, we barely spoke. The hour-and-a-half car ride flew by as my mind replayed the weekend and imagined what could be. I should have been thinking about my upcoming move out of the country, but instead, all I could focus on was how perfectly the last month had aligned to bring me here, with this boy. Every small moment—our chance meeting in Nice, the late-night phone calls, even the flight delay—had led me to this new country, adding another chapter to my life story.

He held my hand as tears streamed down my face on the way to the airport. He was familiar and unfazed by my emotions, my sweet boy, who promised to return to me in Madrid in just three short months.

A kiss goodbye and a few more pathetic tears as I entered the Brussels airport, I knew what I was crying over wasn’t just this boy, but an accumulation of the last year spent traveling through Europe. I had learned to live on my own, to navigate life without the safety net of school, my parents, or even the familiarity of America.

I realized I was crying because I had come to a deeper understanding—that life branches in so many directions. And at that moment, I had chosen the European fig.

(Credit to Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar)