NAIROBI, Kenya—On my second day our search was successful—we found free wifi. My roommate, Sree, and I sat on a couch at Cake Plaza, a pastry shop with a verdant courtyard where we could fortuitously connect to the wireless network. Happily undisturbed and satisfied with the artistic cake display, we had just settled behind our screens when a voice exclaimed, “It’s you again! And you’ve brought a friend!”

Sree gave me a look of panic. The speaker, a 20-something employee with a mop in hand, approached us and unnecessarily mopped the floor around our ankles. “You look very nice today,” he complimented Sree. “I like you in this room.”

Citing work as an excuse, Sree dismissed him. Once he had left, she confided that the previous week he had expressed to her his undying love—or something of the sort.

His pickup line was a twist on a classic: “I don’t have a cell phone,” he had said. “But when I do, can I have your number?”

He hadn’t waited for a response. Instead, he offered his own cheerful reply: “When I have a cell phone, you will give me your number.” He grinned.

The undying optimism, unsolicited cordiality, and uninhibited confidence displayed by our mop-wielding friend (that he would get a cell phone, and that Sree would give him her number) were strangely impressive and unduly inspiring. It was this charm offensive that welcomed me to Kenya, showing me an attitude that I hadn’t often experienced back home.

We haven’t returned to Cake Plaza since our encounter. But when we do, I expect to see the man with the mop. Maybe my first impressions were wrong; perhaps he’ll be less friendly than before. Perhaps he’ll call us out for using the Internet for hours together without supporting the café in equal measure. Or maybe he’ll have a cell phone and a slightly modified pickup line.

Hey, he’ll say. Can I have your number?

Vidya Rajan ’13, an associate editorial editor, is a Statistics concentrator in Lowell House.