I asked Patrick why he had come to Baja. Invariably, people spoke of their connection to the village and why they had chosen to be there on New Year's Eve of the millennium. Patrick, who was in fact Irish and living in Brussels, explained he was supposed to be in New York, but had decided to join his friends in Los Angeles at the last minute.

I was supposed to be in Sydney, I told him, and thought briefly of the Australian man I'd been living with earlier that year. "Well," Patrick said thoughtfully, "it's obviously your fate to be here tonight instead." He was unusual and charming -- polite and a little shy. His voice was soft and gentle, but his sentences were precise and well crafted, inflected with wit. He was that perfect blend of feminine and masculine that American men seem to have such a hard time with.

A woman from New York joined our conversation. As she began talking about the joys of moving to Manhattan late in life, Patrick excused himself, smiled and went to join some people on the other side of the room. I participated in the new conversation halfheartedly, thinking of his clear blue eyes.

I read an article recently that revived Schopenhauer's "will to life" theory -- the idea that the strange, inexplicable, irrational, overwhelming desire to be with someone is actually a subconscious drive to mate with them. I think it is meant to be a consoling theory -- that as hard as we try to be rational about matters of love and attraction, it is in large part out of our control and certainly beyond reason. So maybe that was it, maybe in those first few minutes I had subconsciously determined that Patrick was my ideal procreation partner. Maybe I was just feeling the spirit of New Year's Eve in a beautiful place. Whatever it was, I felt an immediate urgency to spend as much time as possible with him in the two days I had left in the village.

There was an outdoor dance at Casa Diaz following the potluck. Despite frigid temperatures and a violent windstorm, everyone within 10 miles had congregated in the cement square to drink cold Tecate beer and wait out the hours until midnight. Nervous, yet determined, I sought Patrick out in the crowd and asked him to dance. He agreed, seemingly flattered at my invitation. Neither of us was quite sure how to dance to the oompah-oompah rhythm of the ranchero band, but we waltzed back and forth, laughing and stepping on each other's feet. We dipped each other. We planned a leap, in which I would jump into his arms and he would catch me. Of course when he did, he lost his balance and we both fell to the ground.

We were still dancing when the firecrackers began to shoot off at midnight. We kissed lightly, politely, and stood back to watch the crowd around us embracing and passing champagne bottles. "Happy millennium, Patrick."

"Happy millennium to you, too." It was momentous. Whatever happened from there, I knew I would always think of him when someone asked where I was on New Year's Eve 1999. Wouldn't it make a great story to tell if we ended up getting married ... or something?

I did spend much of my time with Patrick over the next two days -- and when I wasn't with him, I was thinking about him. We sat with our friends around a bonfire late at night, drinking the extra bottles of New Year's Eve champagne. We walked around the camp together, barefoot on the hot sand. We sat on the beach in the morning, drinking coffee, talking about what it means to have an inexplicable affinity with someone you've just met. He was unlike anyone I'd ever met before. We seemed to be at the same point in our lives, interested in all the same things, beginning with a mutual love of roaming the world. As the time neared for me to leave, I felt a wave of anxiety reminiscent of the final days of seventh grade summer camp.

On my last morning in the village, while my friends fixed the flat tire on our car and packed up to leave, Patrick and I took the opportunity to take a walk on the beach. We set out for the little white lighthouse in the distance. From the camp, the lighthouse looked small and noble in the hazy distance; when we reached it, it stood large and glaring, suffering from years of neglect. The narrow staircase leading up to its vantage point had collapsed and was spilling out in cement chunks onto the sand. We stood back and looked at the structure, subdued by its decay.

We walked over and sat down in the sand dunes. I closed my eyes, but could feel him looking at me. I knew the time had come when he would kiss me.

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