SOMEHOW I FIND THE CONNECTION IS MADE

Those immortal words, courtesy of Elastica (above) -- were as relevant last night as in 1995. There are several surefire clues that the connection has been made. Laughter is one. Easy conversation another. And chemistry. Perhaps most importantly, if true romance is in the cards, physical contact is more fun than effort. Last night, on my first official date with Alejandro, the one I met Saturday night at Ambar La Fox, we had all of the above, plus a little something extra.

He came over to my apartment, and we talked about our work, our families, music. Surprisingly, our taste in music overlap significantly. Unlike most of the gay guys I've met in Buenos Aires, he couldn't care less about electronica, and his interest in Madonna is passing at best. Give him Kylie or Bjork any day of the week. Or Radiohead, Depeche Mode, R.E.M. and Bowie. As we ate pizza and empanadas, we watched my DVD of Bowie videos and were both genuinely entertained. I showed him the blog post I wrote in Spanish a long time ago about my interview with Bowie. There aren't too many guys who would have even faked interest.

I was a bit worried about his name, Alejandro. After all, my track record with Alejandros is disastrous. Thank God, an hour or so into the date, he revealed that Alejandro is his middle name. His first name: Oscar. He hates it. I like it, although I think it might be better suited to a really cute puppy. I told him that going forward, I'd be calling him Oscar. I made good on that promise, even during the moment of truth (if you know what I mean -- oh, get your mind into the gutter!).

Around 2.30am when he left to go home (he had to be up for work in a few hours), promising to return the following evening, I realized a few things that caused me no small amount of glee. First, I didn't want him to leave, which, for the past year, has been pretty much unheard of. Also, we had spent the previous four and a half hours talking exclusively in Spanish (he doesn't speak English), and I hadn't even noticed. There had been no headache, no frustration, no prayers for long lulls in the conversation, no wishing I was anywhere but there (which is my general state of mind on first dates with non-English and English speakers alike). As far as I was concerned, we'd been speaking my language at night. If that isn't truly being in one's comfort zone, I'm not sure what is.

Maybe date two will be the kiss of death, as so often seems to be the case with me. Even so, it won't negate that fact that I'm still capable of connecting. And that is a great reveal worth celebrating.