It would be easy to consider many exchange students' stays in Japan as extended games of "nanpa."

They come here, not because they love the culture, or the language; the cars or the technology; the business opportunities or even the simple allure and mystique that flow through every bit of cement, asphalt and soil in each of the 23 wards. No, no... those are traditional reasons to visit this place, and many of the sweaty, stinky, acne covered gaijin studying at Waseda, Keio or even Senshu for that matter are not here for anything so pithy as a few kanji lessons.

They are here for the women.

Because, well, although they may posses every aforementioned attribute, and consistently repel even the most desperate of females in their native land, they are still able to pick up women here, because baby, this ain't America anymore.

I didn't come here to pick up women...

...But it sure is fun.

And though I don't consider myself a walking sack of garbage with yellow fever--and though I told myself I would never stoop so low as to go out specifically for picking up Japanese women--I couldn't help but play a bit of the nanpa game tonight. Nanpa, of course, is slang for picking up chicks.

Shall we go pick up chicks tonight?

Certainly, Kyohei, certainly.

Off to Shibuya, and to Sentagai avenue, a place which Kyohei characterized best, in broken English no less: "Sentagi is famous Japanese nanpa street," which of course means that, on a Friday night, it is packed with some of the most beautiful women that Shibuya-ku has to offer. But as I said, nanpa is a game--and the game we played was Americans vs. Japanese.

Most phone numbers wins.

Though Don may tell you a different story, I found our little nanpa adventure to be quite fun, rewarding, and to be excellent practice, even if it was ultimately unsuccessful. Instead of leaving feeling slightly humiliated and rejected, I left feeling wonderful, as if I had really bitten off and swallowed a piece of Japanese culture--though I may have choked on it a bit as it was going down.

Sentagai was full of people standing in circles, talking, drinking, laughing, playing the nanpa game. So we formed our circle, with the Japanese boys taking their turn first, though they wouldn't be flying solo as I was to be included in their gaijin nanpa plan.

The scenario would begin with them approaching a confused looking pair of women, making small talk, then awaiting my arrival from some nearby voyeuristic enclave, after which I would help to "translate," and hopefully our conversation would end in success, with an exchange of phone numbers.

The Japanese plan worked flawlessly, to say the least, and now Kyohei, Takayuki, and myself have added two new numbers to the already long and ever growing list of keitai bango: Catherine from Edmonton and Kelly from Australia. Kyohei was a nanpa pro, for sure.

"I have... uhh, much practice with ehh, nanpa." (Imitating his voice through text is nearly impossible, but just know that he spouts his words in a charming stutter littered with pauses.)

So now the gaijin would have their first try...

Our "target," as Kyohei said, was a group of four young Japanese girls, completely decked out in their finest American imitations of hip hop fashion. Kyohei picked them as our target. "Maybe they look like they like gaijin."

Fine.

Don and I had plenty of luck discussing everything with them from their favorite music to their age and year in school, and though they seemed eager to talk with us, I cut the conversation short before actually getting a phone number. They liked my dreads. I won't count it as a success or a failure, but rather just part of the game.

Next.

"She's impossible."

"Impossible is nothing," Kyohei said, stealing a memorized line from an Adidas ad campaign.

I looked over at the girl, sitting alone on a curb, playing with her cellphone. Why did they have to pick her? Though it was 11:30 p.m., this young woman was still dressed in her school uniform, complete with accessories: large, white bunched up socks. Full, bright makeup. Earrings. Bracelets. A loosened tie. She certainly was striking... and impossible.

So with the same confidence and determination that I had watched an experienced Kyohei approach a white girl and speak English, I approached a cosplay schoolgirl and began speaking Japanese.

The great part about getting shot down in another language, is that you really don't feel so bad afterwards, because you can't understand half of what is said, and because Japanese are too polite to dismiss you with anything other than a terse "byebye" and a flip of the hair. On this occasion, I got the byebye about two minutes into our conversation, and after I explained the situation to Kyohei he reassured me: "No worry. Many time, many time, for me. Many time. Shibuya is very difficult."

His attitude impressed me, but even more so did his lack of hesitation.

"OK Kyohei, her next."

He practically ran to the gaijin I had selected. Confident.

Our game continued until the final train, and I didn't for a moment feel as if I was hitting on women, but rather, engaging in some kind of ridiculous, childish exchange of words that both parties knew would never develop into anything more than a few moments of chit-chat beneath a neon sign in a ward known for it's head shops and love hotels.

I could never, ever approach American women like that, but then again, in America, I'm not a cute foreigner.

Maybe we will play again... Sentagai never sleeps, and the gaijin need to win.