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.