After nearly four years of dating almost exclusively Argentine (with a few European one-nighters as well as dalliances with several guys from other South American countries tossed into the mix for the sake of variety), the United States is making a comeback.
It’s not that I ever swore off Mr. America, but it’s been a long time since he’s really turned my head. I don’t believe I’ve even kissed a guy from the U.S., much less gone out with one, since June or July of 2006.
Suddenly, I find myself flirting with my fellow U.S. expatriates and assorted tourists and wondering what it would be like to go out with one of them. Matt, a tall, blond, relocated-to-New York Los Angelino (he lives right around the corner from my recently sold Manhattan pad) whom I met at Dudui two Saturday nights ago, was particularly yummy and kicked-off my newfound taste for home-grown flavors.
What a wonderful life it could be: Someone who speaks my language, linguistically and culturally. No more tired porteño questions (¿Te gusta Argentina?). No more tired histérico antics (now they want you, now they don’t). No more tired twenty- and thirty-somethings still living at home. No more tired obsession with mom, MSN and roles in bed.
Worst-case scenario: I’m not quite done with porteños, but rather, I’m just prepping myself for a few months away from South America. (I’ll be back in BA once the wanderlust is out of my system.) Best worst-case scenario: In the middle of Istanbul or London or even New York City, I finally meet the Argentine of my dreams?
Yes, Jeremy, keep dreaming!