So I am no longer the alpha exchange student on Floor 11 of Bldg. #719, 9th St. La Plata. Ever since I got here there’s been all this talk of some girl staying with the neighbors that is dying to meet me.

Now, I was pretty sure that I was everyone’s favorite up until this chick popped in yesterday afternoon like she belongs. After just four months in Argentina she thinks she has the run of the country, and more importantly the floor.

Her name is Cecille. She’s French.

All bubbly and ‘whatever like that’, she pokes her head into the apartment to say hello yesterday afternoon. After a standard and rapid cheek kiss salutation she goes on to converse with Jose and Pablo, ignoring me as if she wasn’t curious. If she was curious then why the front? If she wasn’t curious, then why did they say so.

My conlusion? She’s trying to play hard-to-get like I give a shit. It’s irritating because I don’t want her, at all. And, she’s so preoccupied with the labor of ignoring me that I can’t get a word in to tell her so. How do you say “I’m fine, thanks.” in pheremone? Seriously.

So, on her way out she offers to cook a souffle for for dinner. Everyone’s invited. Even me.

I mean, the souffle was all right, kind of cheesy if you ask me, but whatever. The point is they sabotaged me. As soon as the dish was served there was all this about “Ah, the French have represented themselves, how will the Americans (USians) respond?” WTF!?! I didn’t ask for any of this heat. All of a sudden I’m in competition with this girl for Best Guest Student 2006.

They all coerce me into a “Sure, I”ll cook tomorrow,” which I am everything and reluctant to emit. I told them it would be a surprise because, really, I don’t know what to cook or how to do it.

If you need me tomorrow, I’ll be in the kitchen. #@#%!