Love on the Go: In Defense of Vacation Bae – Shondaland.com
Traveling unlocks new parts of ourselves. In the Shondaland series Traveling Well, we’re inspiring new journeys and revealing how to make the most out of your next trip. Our collection of travel tales and inspirational guides will sweep you away and motivate you to discover new possibilities around the world.
Not long ago, I took my mom to Barcelona. I’d been there before, but this was her first time in Europe and our first international trip with just the two of us. This was also the first time I truly embraced having a vacation lover.
To be clear, a vacation lover is different from a hookup. For single gay men or college kids on spring break, a vacation hookup with someone whose name you don’t care to remember is like picking up a souvenir at the airport. It’s just something you do.
I’m talking about a vacation lover — a vacation bae, if you will. This is someone with whom sex is not really the chief goal but the byproduct of a swirly, emotional attraction that defies logic. A Vacation Bae is someone with whom you forge an actual bond, someone who fills your brief stay with thoughtful conversations, long walks, romantic dinners. Someone — even if you know how impossible a future together is — whose company makes you entertain the fantasy of leaving your real life behind, or incorporating them into yours.
This may sound decadent and absurd. Maybe it is. But it’s not uncommon. How Stella Got Her Groove Back and Eat Pray Love stand out as works that incorporate the allure of the Vacation Bae — works that depict women unshackling themselves from roles they were shoved into and leaning into their desires. I can relate. As a boy, I would fantasize about having lovers all over the world. I grew up in a small, moderately conservative Christian town in Virginia where the norm was to go to a state college, marry, have kids, be active in church, and, as I saw it anyway, live sort of happily ever after.
I saw myself descending planes in Paris, Tokyo, and Milan as a scarf flapped in the wind, like in old-timey movies, whereupon I’d take a taxi to meet one of my lovers for wine, dancing, and other sensual delights. This (kinda problematic) tween idyll involved having children with women (again, another trouble spot) of various ethnic backgrounds, creating a little rainbow tribe à la Josephine Baker.
Eavesdropping, as I would often do, on the women in my life — my mom, aunties, ladies in the beauty shop — about their man problems, I was acutely aware that relying on one person for all my emotional and physical needs for the rest of my life was a setup for disappointment and heartbreak. I knew I didn’t want that. Today, I understand that it wasn’t so much a (cringey) crayon box of children young me wanted, but adventure, risk, a rejection of heteronormative married-with-children expectations. I wanted what Sade sings about in “Smooth Operator” — seductive, grown-up rendezvous in hotel rooms: “Coast to coast, L.A. to Chicago.” I wanted freedom, and stories to tell.
His name was — sorry, is; he’s still living, LOL — Carlos. I got a ‘like’ from him on Tinder when me and Mom landed on Friday. He’s 49, with salt-and-pepper hair with a beard to match, a boyish face, and a cleft chin. Ruggedly handsome with a slightly mischievous smile, Carlos wrote in his profile that he spoke six languages, and let me tell you, never have I ever swiped right faster. He sent a hello message right away, and we chatted — our correspondence was very PG, very respectful, very gentlemanly. He offered to show me around. Being that I was with my mother, this seemed nearly impossible, at least during the day. “Maybe,” I wrote. “We’ll see.”
Saturday morning, my mom handed me a gift in the form of a surprise announcement. “I’m so tired from traveling,” she told me. “I don’t think I’m up for sightseeing today. I’d really just like to stay in bed and rest.”
Carlos was downstairs within the hour.
I gave him an address a few feet away to be safe, or in case he had a nose growing out of his neck. I walked toward him, struck by his simple, stylish outfit and inviting grin. We smiled at each other familiarly, and though this was a teeny bit awkward, I felt safe. (I must take a moment to acknowledge my privilege here as a 200-pound man; I realize that many women would rightfully deem this unthinkable.) As we exchanged hellos, he opened the seat to his scooter and handed me the spare helmet within. “Do you want to see the city?”
Barcelona’s people, cafés, and architectural landmarks whizzed by in a colorful blur as I held onto the side of the motorbike. At the beach, he pointed out famous statues. We stopped for tapas and drank the first of many, many glasses of sangria to come, and then kissed. Back on the scooter, I wrapped my arms around his torso confidently, with the familiarity I’d have with an old friend. We got off and walked through the Gothic Quarter, holding hands. He pointed out artistic and cultural landmarks I hadn’t seen on my first visit.
We walked for what seemed like miles and then shared another pitcher of sangria (okay, two), laughing and talking — about art and music, our families, our exes — before making out like teenagers. I checked in on my mom several times, of course, and told her I was out with “a friend” so as not to alarm her by telling her I sped off with some rando I met on an app. But the truth was that he wasn’t a rando. He was a friend. No, more than that. He was my Vacation Bae.
We met two or three more times in my remaining days. We had dinner. We had a LOT more wine in my room. What we did not have was sex. We were physically intimate, sure — our last night together we watched Eurovision in bed, cuddling, laughing, talking, and half-joking about our imaginary half-Black, half-Spanish son — but we didn’t have full-on sex. We didn’t need to. Sex wasn’t the point. It was about connection, spark, energy, touch, feeling seen, feeling desired.
At one point, he gave a little soliloquy that moved me so much, I asked him to repeat it so I could record it on my phone. He giggled, and did; I still watch it sometimes. “Spain,” he said, eyes soggy from wine, “is this. Life. Wine. Art. Museums. More wine. Men. Women. Love. Passion.” I felt like the main character in a James Baldwin novel, bohemian and hip, tender and vulnerable, tough and unafraid. I felt alive.
For the first time in my life, the goodbye was not bittersweet. I know we’ll see each other again, hopefully in person, definitely on social media. But the aching and longing I might’ve had 10, five years ago — accompanied by a frantic search for plane tickets to orchestrate a reunion — are not there. I guess I’ve grown up. Maybe I’m jaded. I don’t know. But I can’t ever remember being so smitten with someone and not needing to keep it going. Frankly, I’ve impressed myself.
Of course, I sometimes dream about packing up and starting a new life in Spain with him. But I know that is a fantasy. It could happen, but the reality is that he has his own life, problems, issues, hang-ups, needs, and idiosyncrasies I know nothing about, a basket of “stuff” that could be disastrous when paired with mine. Knowing that, and the fact that everything ends eventually, ironically made the present all the more lasting and poetic. We’ve all heard the adage: “You don’t bring sand to the beach.” Well, the inverse is true. You can’t bring the sand home, either. We had a wonderful time together. I’m okay with letting that be enough.
This is the beauty of the Vacation Bae. You learn you can live unbounded, to give and receive love freely without needing to try to hold on to it. You learn to be comfortable with not needing to know what happens next, and how emancipating that feels. Maybe you’ll see each other again; maybe you won’t. You have to let the story play out and marvel at the beauty you had, the way your world expanded because you were willing to surrender to possibility. I’m very fond of my new friend. We had an amazing time, and I do miss him. But the most beautiful thing about the experience was what it revealed to me. It wasn’t about falling in love with someone else. It was about falling in love with my own life, and myself.
Malcolm Venable is a Senior Staff Writer at Shondaland. Follow him on Twitter @malcolmvenable.
Get Shondaland directly in your inbox: SUBSCRIBE TODAY
This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io