No more Mr Nice Guy

It all started really well. The woman from the website (let's call her Sarah) said she was up for some banter. Music to my ears, as there is nothing that I enjoy more than some verbal sparring (West Ham winning the league might be on a par, but I'm trying to be realistic). Let battle commence. But it was soon apparent that her idea of banter was replying 'lol' to my mickey taking. And there is nothing I hate more than seemingly articulate people having nothing more imaginative to say than having to resort to text speak - you're not 15 (at least, I hope you're not). By the second night, she was coming on really heavy. 'When did you split up with your last girlfriend?', 'why did it end?' and 'do you plan to get back together?' were among a salvo of questions I had to field. All valid enquiries in the fullness of time (although if the answer to the third question is 'yes', I'm hardly likely to tell the truth), but should they be asked before she even knows my name - and thinks I live in a treehouse (it's a long story)? It then transpires that she's not enjoying my ribbing. No problems. I can do 'pleasant'. So I move on to 'how was your day?'-type questions. By the end of the evening, Sarah is saying how much she likes me when I'm 'nice'. Indeed. But if was looking for a 'nice' relationship, I'd go out with my mum. That's obviously a theoretical statement; not because my mum is with my dad and is too old for me - it's just that she's the nicest person I know. But I want spark, energy, chemistry and the wow factor - and Sarah is in danger of heading down the motherly path. And then she phones me. That's not the way it works. I am an enigmatic stranger who sends witty emails and text messages for several weeks. Then we meet up, she doesn't fancy me and I find a new victim. Part of the reason is that despite being public school educated, I sound like an extra from a Guy Ritchie movie. And having a face only a mother could love is probably another factor. So I ignore the call, making up some excuse to her. In the meantime, someone I met in February and asked out (unsuccessfully) is back on the scene. She gives great text. Every time my phone buzzes, I hope it is from her. We have arranged to meet up in a couple of weeks. And she doesn't live 100 miles away.

Chat's the way to do it

I received an email from Gemma over the weekend. I could only compare it with one that a bank manager would send a customer (if they sent personal emails, that is). Formal, brief, dull and detatched. I think would rather have received nothing at all and contented myself with thoughts that I had been sending my messages to the wrong address, while she was pining for me in San Jose. It's a bit of a new one on me to have experienced huge chemistry face to face, only to find it go pear-shaped when we start emailing. The other way round is all too familiar. As most of the women I date these days I either meet through mutual friends or websites, I have usually exchanged numerous emails before meeting in the flesh (and those that I don't connect with, I don't bother meeting). Yet it's amazing that so many women who are up for some banter in cyberspace, have the zest and personality of a rag doll when you meet them. Talking of the internet, I received an email yesterday from a woman on a dating website of which I used to be a member. As they were offering a month's membership for a fiver, I decided to sign up. The email was OK and the sender definitely worth getting to know better - even if she does live 100 miles away. We spent all last night on the site's instant messaging facility. Suddenly, an air ticket to San Jose seems an unnecessary expense.

Counting the Costa

I'd been travelling around Panama and Costa Rica for four weeks and hadn't met a woman within 10 years of my age. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by teenage Americans - an army of Debbie Gibsons (showing my age there) with perfect smiles and gym-fit figures.

All very nice to look at, but for a bloke whose limited success with women has been based on his sense of humour, Americans' lack of appreciation for sarcasm was always going to render them out of my reach - even if they did love my estuary accent.

And then it happened. She was coming into the hostel and I gave way at a puddle to let her pass. She didn't thank me, but as she was sporting my favourite look (short, dark hair), it didn't matter.

A couple of hours later, I was coming back from a restaurant, when I saw her sitting at a bar alone. I went and sat just along from her. But she was concentrating intensely on a letter that she was writing and didn't look up once. Within 30 minutes she was gone. I berated myself for not making a move, although having not once made any eye contact, she had hardly invited an approach.

The following evening, I was lying in a hammock, when she came and sat near me. Say something clever. You can do it. If it was a bloke, you would just ask him where he was from (every traveller's opening gambit). Before I'd had a chance to make a move, she was joined by three other women. Foiled again. I returned to my book.

A couple of minutes later, I heard one of them say 'Essex'. As my home county, my ears pricked up. When the short-haired woman mentioned 'Walthamstow' (somewhere I know well), I had to join in the conversation. It turned out that one of the women, a Uruguayan, had the opportunity to study at Essex University, and was seeking advice. I asked Gemma (the short-haired woman) about the previous evening. She said she'd been so tired following a 20-mile pilgrimage the previous night, she hadn't even noticed me.

To cut a long story short, Gemma and I chatted non-stop for the next eight hours. We went for a dinner and then to a bar, only going back to the hostel when all the bars in town had closed. There wasn't a single embarrassing pause all evening or any pointless questions just to keep the conversation flowing, like on most first dates. It was just so natural.

We spent the following morning together. If anything, it was even better. The banter and chemistry were intense. I'd had never clicked with anyone to such an extent within a day of meeting them. We both worked in the media, were born 10 miles apart, loved travelling and were football nuts (although I support a far better team). She asked me whether I was always so funny (I do my best) and always so happy (that's just you bringing out the best in me).

And then she was gone, back to San Jose, where she was teaching English. She gave me her email address and promised me her postal address, so that I could send her a letter. I couldn't stop thinking about her for the rest of the day. A mutual friend said he had never seen two people hit it off so well. He said he thought we were plotting a bank job.

As I was going to be in San Jose the following night before flying back to London, I emailed Gemma asking whether she fancied meeting up. No reply. So I tried again. Nothing. I sent her a third email the following day from the airport. Yet three days later, no reply.

Perhaps I'm being a little pessimistic, but this has happened so many times over the years, I am starting to expect it. I'm going to keep trying, though - Gemma blew me away like nobody ever has. I know it's a long distance from Epping to San Jose, but, like Dionne Warwick, I do know the way.

Welcome to my world of disastrous dates and unrequited love.