It was a cool summer night wearing a thin cashmere jumper. At the bar, I sipped caipirinha with wingmen discussing dimming prospects when I saw her—a 9 or 9.5 depending on who you ask. The problem with DC is that hot girl game practice is rare. In Argentina you get constant 8s and 9s. Here it's mostly 6s and 7s—cute but generic, not worth settling for. With limited high-value targets, I had to bring serious game and a willingness to be a dick.

She was with eight other girls, so I waited for her to break off. I tapped my friend's shoulder so he could witness my attempt. "Hey." She turned. "Let me guess… you're from Argentina?" "Nope." I went through Italy, Colombia, Spain. Finally: "Bolivia." "Really? Cool, well, you don't look bad because Bolivia has the ugliest girls I've ever seen." She erupted: "My family is from Bolivia!!!" I backtracked: "You must be from the east."

Her friend was equally outraged, but she stayed in front of me. I pivoted: "No other guy knows Bolivia like I do. I was there three weeks with parasites to prove it" (actually ten days). She asked where I was from. Soon she grabbed both my hands and we danced. I joked things wouldn't work out because her hair was shorter than mine. She mentioned a boyfriend, her friend pulled her away. I shined for six minutes total.

The problem is that when you see a 9 in this city, you have to be at your absolute best because no other 9s appear for weeks. The odds of closing a 9 from cold approach here are scratch-ticket lottery odds, but you try anyway. Until I leave DC, it's impossible to live up to my game potential. I ended up getting the number of a 7 instead—respectable, but a reminder that location constrains what's possible, no matter how sharp your game is.