Greetings from New York. I'm in a cybercafe in SoHo, and I've been here a week, for much needed heartmending. I'm lucky enough to have two dear friends here, who have opened up their homes to me and allowed me to collapse and recover and take stock. Travel is a wonderfully healing thing to do; as well as breaking the rhythm of everyday life, it's allowing me to take perspective of myself as a gay man, and - surprisingly - as an Irishman.

I lost track of my Irishness a while back in London. Not my pride in being Irish, but something fundamental about my values and feelings, that are part of my Irish identity.

Before I lived in London, I used to visit there many times, seeing it as a refuge from the claustrophobic nature of Irish society in the '80s and early '90s. I found it gave me freedom to explore my sexuality, and the buzz of the scene here I found invigorating and liberating. Being Irish in Thatcher's England used to make me self-conscious - I knew I could never live there while she was still in charge. Post-Thatcher, and especially under Blair, things have changed remarkably for the better in many ways.

But I've made the mistake of assuming that my capacity to survive in London was a mark of success in life terms. It was a success of sorts - of assimilation, of settling into the cold greyness of a city that offers much to learn intellectually. And I've certainly made great strides ahead in getting qualifications and being creative in ways I didn't envisage before I moved there. But it hasn't been a success in my terms, in matters of the heart. I forgot that I had a choice about where I fill my heart, and I'm now realising that, although true contentment is not something that I can find anywhere else but inside me, it helps to be in an environment that supports rather than isolates and depresses.

In New York I'm reminded suddenly of how there are other ways of living in a world city, without losing one's sense of individuality. For I realise the very things that have made my relationship history so problematic in London - a passionate intensity and a (perhaps overly-) dramatic sensibility - are quintessential Irish traits, as seen from this side of the Atlantic. I'm running the risk of slipping into cultural stereotypes here, but allow me this indulgence for the sake of argument. The English seem to excel at emotional repression, and are deeply ashamed of expressing themselves in any way other than through rationalising and politicalisation. In choosing to live in London, for all sorts of good reasons, I've consistently found myself bashing up against a powerful resistance in men to open up emotionally, which has made it very hard for me to trust. And lack of trust breeds mistrust in others - it's a tough circle to break out of. London's gay scene is sexy because it's cold and fetishistic; big-heartedness and passion and lust for life just don't figure there as attractive traits.

Now I'm not going to pretend for one second that it's all London's fault that I haven't found a lasting relationship - I've made many mistakes, and have found it extremely difficult to stop being a control freak. But in coming to New York, the home of gay liberation, I'm suddenly aware of the emotional generosity here, and the acceptance of diversity in a way that is truly colourful, as opposed to the greying nature of London life.

My Irish friend here, living in a noisy Latino neighbourhood in Brooklyn, with whom I've been friends since our teenage years, is going out with a guitar-playing Latino man with a heart so warm you could toast bread on it. I know that I'm sailing close to the wind here in terms of attributing particular qualities to a particular race or ethnicity, but I can only speak about what I see and feel.

I haven't been on the gay "scene" here in New York, nor do I plan to be. But wandering around downtown Manhattan I'm struck by the way gay men are so visible - but as couples. It's a completely different presence on the streets - these are men who are out walking their dog, or on their way to the shops - but the way they dress and their body language all attest to their coupledom; they look and feel married to this observer. They are comfortable with each other in the way that married people are. Naturally, this being Manhattan, they are stinking rich, by the look of them, but there's a post-liberation feel to them; they've got the "lifestyle" and they're showing off their status in a very subtle way; by being content. How radical.

The London gay scene, by comparison, seems infused with an angry singularity, full of hungry eyes and steeped in a class-consciousness that I hadn't noticed before now. The popular skinhead look, with which I have flirted over the years, is basically the eroticisation of working class "attitude", with its heartlessness and undertone of violence and, paradoxically, victimisation and underprivilege. Middle class men will dress up in all sorts of butch gear to hide the fact that we've got the aesthetic sensitivity of a butterfly; one has to hide one's sensitivity to score.

In contrast, blue-collar New Yorkers are not, apparently, fetishised here; of course there are those who sport the jeans and doc martens, but middle-class men here are happy to be soft and camp and outrageous and dramatic and intense - because it's America, and you can be who you want to be. The emphasis is on emotional openness and pride - a peculiarly American combination.

My friend here says dating is fun in New York; he has met and dated many interesting men, most of whom are in therapy and are questioning themselves and busily improving their lives. So far, romance hasn't struck; but anything is possible here, and he won't stop trying. Naturally, he hasn't found the answer to the problem of reconciling his desire with being single; like me, the problem of what to do with one's sexual drives while waiting for Mr Right or Mr Maybe to come along confounds him - that's a universal problem, not one confined to London. But I rate his chances far higher of at least enjoying the search here, than in London, where we met, and which he hated.

I think of Dublin now, and wonder which way it's going to go. Post-Robinson, the possibilities are endless. Some signs aren't good - there is an ominous trend away from pleasant pub chat now on the scene, for everyone knows that post-disco, they can go to the crowded saunas, get their kit off, and have uncomplicated sex with handsome strangers without having to make breakfast. But always with a smile and a warm hug. There are worse ways of relating.

For the first time, I've begun to see how much of a choice I have about where to feel warm and supported in life. I'm not talking about finding a lover - that's a wild card, totally unpredictable. But I've been bashing my head against the brick wall that is London's cold heart, complaining bitterly in these pages over the years.

Perhaps it's time that, instead of wishing that London were different, I set my sights on giving myself an easier, softer life elsewhere. I've only one life, and it's time I took that seriously, as opposed to being yet another troubled observer, repeatedly providing evidence on how the English don't really understand Irish passion. Been there. Done that.