By Camille Pirtle We can’t cook. That is our first attempt at endearment to the college girls at the bar. They flip their honey-blonde hair over their shoulders and consider us, shy looks on their faces. They have seen Americans before, but never quite like us. Two of us. Gray sweaters and glasses, brown belts from Abercrombie bought before the trip, twelve-seventy-five-each and no returns. Two girls that dress like boys. Big white fluoride grins. They don’t have that here. N