today is all i have to give

Namaste and hello, again!

Surely the lazy will drown, and surely I have guzzled a few gallons.

Apologies...but a rediscovery and recreation of this blog site must become a priority.

My elaborate Manhattan entrance has now ushered me home, to the north side of Chicago,

but I managed to transport myself to Lima, Peru for a plethora of occasions.

*My cousin, Cristi Ros was marrying Florent on August 7th!

*All the French familila was in attendance in Peru (even those traveling from New Caledonia, off the coast of Australia)!

*Mi familia Peruano. My family. My lovely family. 4 years is a long time between visits.

*Machu Picchu was waiting!

*The FOOD! The FOOD, accompanied by exquisitely tuned French senses of aroma and flavor.

The FOOD, in the presence of Florent, a professional Parisian chef, skilled and studied, who knows food from FOOD.

*The awaited introduction of the representative of the German family to the Peruvian family.

One engagement ring to unite them all!

*Pisco Sours. Maracuya Sours. Pisco Sours!!

Chicago is glazed and beckoning. Juicy sunrise Farmer's Markets. Routine Bucks runs. Lincoln Square-ers bustle within German delicatessens. Children begin the essence of walking.

The crunchy bite of wind weaves the sandy leaves into my hair, and I am a memory in full stride on my Vondelstraat path from crumbling alleys of the Red Light District.

In full stride to the Musee D'Orsay, display macaroons on metal cooling racks in the corner cafe.

Full stride up the the heavens of the Alhambra; stride underneath the mammoth spider installations at the Gugg in Bilbao.

TODAY, I stride, and only scour the path at my toenails. Today, is all I have to give.

In my tomorrows, I ache to make this path all that the clouds are consumed by...

namaste, m*tha f*ckas. . . let us stride on.

it begins with a bite

eat it.

my next post, lovely m*tha f*ckas, is about food.

and with new york and chicago combined, we gotta good thing goin'.

namaste, foodies. i have missed you.

MERCURIAL

of mercury

of chemistry

of myth

of orbital rotation

of la luna

of cascades of heat

of rebirth

of elements

of laid pavement

of mown grass

of honey in the tree bark

of pollutants on my contacts

this heaving life is gasping for a cleanse

for a swab of ointment

for an herbal balm

for mommy's hands

for a nip of Bailey's.

it's f*ckin' hectic on 9th

and i jog my way past the blowouts

the only way i know

head down

tunneling over the grates and bowels of the city

passages under kitchens

under wine hustlers

under pasty puff-ers

new yorker puertoricans workin' the Amish Market

and the flavor of this melted pot is thick

it's complex

it carries history

and grit

and i dig it

when i see a family in saris

kickin' around an inflatable globe.

what seaport do i go to to watch the sunrise?

with LSD not so close...

all things are too fresh

i still remain a tourist

despite the temporary address

the light peeled back and frisked me over

i am saturated in city

saturated in humans

saturated in media

saturated in the heat that confusion spreads thick.

*Gina Cornejo written 4/2/10

namaste, to the winds of change...just don't blow me the h*ll over.

a missed may

i did. i missed may. totally. fully. complete fly by.

apologies, alongside a hearty namaste to you all!

my may daytime musings were complex and stressed and unfocused.

may teased me with dreams of spain, nepal, paris, australia, chicago...

i currently have no footing. i currently have no dirt in which to bloom forth.

i can feasibly pack my things and go. go!

just go...but to do what...to accomplish what...to flourish into what...

i was up very early in the city this month. early enough that Times Square

held an eerie resemblance to the movie "I AM LEGEND."

able to witness the bold yawn of the city,

swept up in street-meat onions and cart-coffee,

the routine of a couples parting on their separate paths to work

was a gem of genuine behavior.

and for new york, that's impressive.

the AM kisses were not thrust and rushed.

an extension of the night prior, a last taste, a small snuggle,

a new york nuzzle in the skin you surrendered in.

these couples genuinely displayed "love" and i saw it.

("love" love, because who knows if these people have been married for 7 years

or met at an 80's theme party last Wednesday. logistics on the side, they began

a day - this day - together.)

what they ate for breakfast or who cooked it, in whose shirt...

did they pack n' carry a handy travel toothbrush...

the nanny, was she on time today...

their laptop, did they plug it in overnight, or will they charge it at the office...

still wearing the purple leopard heels,

but accompanying a more casual newly-purchased Gap pencil skirt and cotton blouse...

i deeply "love" these couples.

i wish them all well.

i urge more slowness in life - my own included.

i urge more deliberate, thought out behavior.

i urge more tenderness with time and execution.

no one knows what is good for you, except you.

except, really, only you.

totally. fully. complete.

since i can't seem to make up my damn mind, as of late, i need to take it slow.

i need to yawn. i need to settle in. i need to focus. focus on, really, only me.

then, i can extend out...genuinely extend to others...deliberately give to them.

namaste. keep it slow.

pearls

I had written this in October of 2009, when my mom was admitted into the hospital.

MRSA had caught her, and she was then onto the ICU...

from bad to worse...days to weeks...

months of healing...

it is/was a frightening, humbling ordeal.

My mom is superhuman, a Light Bright vision, a person like no one else I have yet to meet.

She is patience, humility, underestimated strength.

My BFF. Who I want to be when I grow up. That's for damn sure!

i form warm rose pearls from my sweat.

there is god in me, that's for damn sure.

no one harms me.

no one claims me.

i am salt diamond St. Petersburg sand.

i am Wisconsin Friday Night Fish Fry, red-checkered buffet tray in hand.

i am bootleg Christmas trees and Sears blenders scuttled through South American borders.

i am light bulb pollen and pumpkin marigolds.

i am the IV hanging.

i am the medicated halo that creates an imbalance to your white blood cells

counted and calculated and charted so tenderly.

an unconscious medical wonder VIP.

i am the fierce antidote.

i am the medicinal cocktail logging laps in your veins from brains to foot,

there is nowhere for you to root, to plant,

to anchor your vessel.

i know. its such a hassle.

the tip-toeing, the unknowing, the blood bags, the thick liquid bubbles,

the moist heat, the clot by your feet, the dose of chalk to choke in -

to eventually infect your mouth as a baby's yawn .

and breath never became so slow before and

life never became so death before and

nine doctors in white cloaks spoke

your full name

in a huddled ring outside your room of hushed infection.

no one can harm you.

no one can claim you.

the tension that tightens you now beings to froth and drown.

your vessel can anchor.

let the Earth-Shaker scour all.

the god in you, you passed to me -

since in your sweat pearls warm were made.

my mother,

of spring skin and gems,

allow Saint Poseidon to anoint your breath again.

then, ease her anchor into deep bamboo coral

and wade to witness the reborn vessel.

namaste, mom. te quiero mucho!

Examiner.com

Submission for Examiner.com.

I didn't get the job, but I tried.

So, for now, in my mild sorrow,

bite me, Examiner.com.

I left my 10 year hometown of Chicago, Illinois, in chilly, late December (2009), for Otura, a town just outside of Granada, Spain. My return to Europe was to make my way north...to the north of Spain, to the north to visit never before visited German relatives of my then boyfriend, now fiancé, to the north to quench my tulip and old world obsession in Amsterdam, and to Paris to reunite with my Peruvian cousin and her French chef fiance.

The family friends (a husband and wife team) who housed me in Otura, are both travelers, adventure travelers, at that! They own and run Venture Forth Iberia, specializing in bike tours, art and religion tours, complete with hiking the Camino de Santiago in the north of Spain, and posses the amazing knowledge of Spanish food, culture, landscape and history - while raising their little boy, who mingles between English and Spanish fluently.

Upon my return home, New York called out to me as my next city to conquer! Welcoming a new city, such as New York, onto my list of "Cities to Live in Before Death," only creates the momentum to thrive and explore! to digest the culture! to continue traveling! to continue to learn my way around this planet one Arrondissement at a time.

I am currently 'living abroad' in New York. I arrived March 31, 2010.

My past travels have lead me to Costa Rica, Spain, and Peru, and Peru once again in August 2010, for the wedding of my cousin to her Parisian chef. My father's side of the family all still live in Peru, in Lima and Miraflores. My travels 'home' to Lima allow me to develop my full character as living as Peruvian-American. My mother has gorgeous Swedish and German roots, but hails from Morton Grove, Illinois. My desire for travel/living abroad will always root inside the bulb of discovery. The discovery of oneself, a personal or cultural historical discovery, the discovery of freedom, humility, humanity.

It's obvious I posses a passionate vim about travel, about serious connection, about the blossoming that only travel can ignite!

*** *** ***

Within the "Living Abroad" topic, it raises my interest in the tourist. The tourist, the native. In New York City, New York, in Vanves, France. The new working-tourist fascination and how adaption, and adoption, of a city is a worthy cause for character and career development.

The concept of 'home' is always a curious beast. One that snarls as it hunts, a constant reminder of where you 'should' be as opposed to where you 'choose' to be and vice versa. The topic of home is rich and deep, universal and superbly individual. I am enamored by the sweet tug of home, as well as the vicious roots that drag you back over the welcome mat and through the screen door when you least expect it.

*** *** ***

Infected by wanderlust, Gina Cornejo, has made 'home' her own moveable feast. Hailing from Chicago, and claiming New York City's, Hell's Kitchen, as her own, she begins again to audition, perform, write/blog, navigate, participate in event marketing and promotions via LeadDog Marketing Group, Inc., and continue on her quest for the best slice of pie. Newly engaged, a destination wedding is highly likely.

(mini sample bio they asked for)

*** *** ***

namaste, Examiner.com...maybe next time.

official arrival, folks!

between 8th and 9th

between deli and thai

an official arrival of spring has sprouted.

it's no matter that i can't pinpoint hyacinths in Central Park,

since i sweat wet lavender and pollen birth.

between fine French and New Jersey foul

between language leftovers on 10 for 1 postcards

between the fruit vendor, carb vendor, pashmina, nuts and keychains;

the official arrival of spring is salivating.

it's no matter i'm saturated, since i live in the Kitchen of the Melting Pot.

so, between the airport and an off-broadway rehearsal

between ORD and my entrance down into the wedding rabbit hole,

the official arrival of a proposal has occurred!

between the transition and upheaval

between our luscious parisian lifestyle lilt and

dutch -gracht and -stradt wonderings of tulips tip-toed up narrow staircases...

between this hustled choice of life and travel,

we paused.

he kneeled.

i gaped.

there was a ring.

we popped a cork.

he swig. i swig.

i made phone calls.

he went back to work.

i said a holy YES within the hustle!

and, the official arrival of an engagement has me sweating flora

as my foul mouth trumpets elation, f*ck! yeah!

(now, if i can only manage the b**chin' subway!)

namaste, to my fiance!

3-31-10

new york, new york

arrived into LaGuardia

meandered through Queens

hit walls of traffic

spoke a little Spanish with my cab driver,

25 years he's been here, big city, he says, where you from?

Chicago!

big city, too, he says. not as big as New York, but big.

but, where you from?

Ahhhh, Wisconsin. Born and raised.

But, your asking about Peru. I have family from and in Peru. Lima.

Going there for a wedding in August!

aaaaahhhhh, Peru?! ceviche! mmmmmm, the ceviche!

Claro, the ceviche es muy rico...

i pay George, thank him for the service, as my bags get bellhop-ed into the lobby.

no keys, no map in hand

New Big City, ripe and juicy

carousel doors leaving me spun and hungry

until, my love pushes through the amusement of the ride we took to arrive

and

calms

me

back

to

planet

new york,

new leaf.

namaste, NYC. let's be kind to each other, new lover!

28 on 16

my 28th birthday was on March 16th.
it wasn't just relaxed, it was blissfully normal.

i, was most definitely, home.

scrumptious family dinners, my mom took me shopping,
my boyfriend bought me an Anthony Bourdain book,
facebook post overload of birthday wishes from lovely friends,
homemade chocolate chip cake, funny cards that make me smile.

i felt the home -
the coinciding bond between the tangible location,
the ease of the release of the heart,
and the thick memories that somehow stabilize you, root you, and
shock you how the senses and space make time a watery play-thing.

"i'm here, again. this kitchen...i am standing here, again."

"what's that?" my mom asks.

"i just can't believe i am standing here. in the kitchen!"
stretching my 8 hours plane limbs, on a deep inhale,
eyes sealed, oily flashes of Parisian cafes, German faces of new family,
the Sierra Nevadas out of my window.

...did i really have an Amsterdam apartment...

"where the hell was i?! where am i now?!"


in Montmarte, France, there is a Dali Musee.
bronze sculpture works from Dali, oil paintings of the themes of Alice in Wonderland,
and intricate/intense 12 Stations of the Cross.
even the entire student body of a mid-western middle school paid tribute to Dali
by sporting the Dali mustache: thin and upturned, menacing and playful.
i was surprised to see them all without a U crutch in hand!

a handful of his bronze works were of the limp watches.
Dali often said: materialization of the flexibility of the Time and the invisibility of the Space.
It is a fluid. Unexpected limpness of the watch represents also the psychological aspect by which the speed of time though specifies in its scientific definition can largely vary in his human perception. The idea came to him after contemplating the remainders of his running Camembert cheese. (as stated on the Espace Dali Montmarte website)

on March 16th, i turned 28 years old, young, what have you.

my cheese has been running for quite some time now.
and i have chosen to take my time, my life, contemplating it.

i urge you to do the same.

because who doesn't LOVE cheese?


namaste, to Salvador Dali, my family, and the magic of Time and Space!

away and back

namaste, United States of America!

since my last entry in France, i have had the honor of
travelling to Germany and the Netherlands, and also nabbing
a small breath of a hello in Ireland during a layover.

i ceased my blogging due to my appetite for being
instead of recording
and so i limited my computer minutes to that of important e-mails home
with occasional facebook updates.

with my initial blog intentions to write! write! write!
and hurdle fears,
and remain inspired and reckless,
i no longer postpone my blog entries!

it's monday, march 8, 2010.
i have been home for 4 days.
3 nights of the 4 days, my dreams have taken place in Paris.
i stand in my parents kitchen - it's still the kitchen.
i take a run on the bike path near the house -
my last run took place in Vondelpark, Amsterdam, Netherlands.
the Olympics came and went -
i cheered on the Frenchies in France,
the Germans in Germany,
the Netherland-ers in The Netherlands.
i was just meditatively strolling in the Alhambra Generalife.
sitting on a bench, baguette in mouth, underneath the skirt of the Eiffel Tower.
eating at the best Chinese buffet, The Shan-gri-la, in Dortmund.
eyeballing the lovlies drenched in Red Light.
and, already deeply missing my cousin, during a layover in Dublin.

away and back!
trains and trams!
Spanish to Dutch!
change upon change!

namaste, to the spirit of movement!
let us never be content!!

20 days prior

i have been in France for 20 days!
including epic holidays: Groundhog Day and Valentine's Day.

according to my 2009-2010 walking guide of Paris, i have strolled
the Village Paris, Glamorous Paris, Timeless Paris, Artists' Paris,
Monumental Paris, Mythical Paris...i've done well for myself.
although i have yet to conquer Cosmopolitan Paris,
boat tour on the River Seine,
the all too fantastical Musée Du Louvre,
and locate the chocolate behind the doors of Debauve & Gallais
(the oldest chocolatier in Paris, opened in 1800, who made delicate
treats for the Kings of France, m*tha f*ckas!)

i have mastered the Metro.

not nearly eaten my weight in snails (there's time for that, for sure).

drank the champagne that was sent over from the table of regulars
at the late night cafe in Vanves...the 2 bottles of champagne, no less.

ate off of the plate, off of the fork, of Cristof, on the Boulevard de Clichy,
across from the Moulin Rouge. drank his wine, smoked his cigarette,
and know he is part of the development department for a large,
successful, energy conservation corporation. he also plays squash.

i want to eat a baguette every morning.
i want it with an espresso.
i want soupe d' oignon for a midday warm-up.
i want the truffles from Jeff de Bruges on Rue Lepic.
i want snails, snails, and more escargot.
i want to speak more French.
i want to hug my cousin everyday.
i want to stare under the gold skirt of the Eiffel Tower.
i want a crépe of nutella, banana, and almond from
that one guy on that one corner.
i want to kiss as that heart shaped balloon floats by the Sacre Coeur.
i want to keep cheering for the French in the Winter Olympics.

i want to keep waking up
to hear a language i do not follow,
and smile
the smile
i smiled
out of the terminal,
and into Paris,
20 days prior.

namaste, little escargot i have yet to devour.

enchantè, Paris

enchantè, Paris!

enchantè, Vanves!

enchantè, and namaste!

i have again been on the go-go, my friends!

i walk. i eat. i browse. i pause. remember to breath, then continue walking.
i read every foreign word; i smile and i can ask for the check and apologize
like a professional. i can take you to where the sales are, where couture dines.
i walk. i worry i am lost. i most likely am. then, i accept that fact, and
continue walking -
into the snow flurries, against the sadness of rain, away from the sunlight.
i watch everyone smoke. i smoke, too. sometimes. here and there.
sometimes from here to there. i accept my immature smoking status
amongst a city of avid inhalers/exhalers. damn, they make smoking sexy.
again. yes, i just said smoking is sexy, again.
i look into crowded - understatement - cafes sifting
through the talking heads
to find a suitable table worth writing at for a time. worth investing 6 euros
for a cafe au lait, a cafe creme, espresso.
worth 2 hours - understatement - deciphering the french that swarms
through the smoke and into my hair and kisses the white foam
of my creme confection.
their vowels purse and i, with envy, of their lips that oui and oui
past the foam to create a creamy sentence of gossip
or business
or friendship.
i flirt. with anyone selling me my pastry. young girl. young-ish boy.
salt and pepper, or just salt, cardigan button down.
Egyptian. selling up front while yells to mom in the back,
Oz behind the curtain. lever pulling, croissant counting.
i flirt hoping this time it will be free.
this time they will sell it to me for less than advertised.
this time, i have most certainly lost my marbles,
and the romance of a country like that may never exist in this time again.
i side step the rain, i Lindy hop it.
i look up to washout sadness.
when eet rayns een Paris, eet ees really quite saad. eet ees.
yes, she says.
beautiful, steell, but sad, yes. and she knows. she lives here.
but, steell, walk, she urges. steell, walk, eet will bee beautiful.
so i trust my gorgeous cousin Cristi Ros. i always trust family.
so i do. i walk until the sun appears behind the tower after a snow cap.
the cars dusted as my pastry crust.
the windshield,
the pane of glass, i point through when ordering.
smiling. mildly flirting. hoping for free but will receive full price.
always full un-romantic price.
i walk. i flee. i navigate. i shock myself with a matter of following my instinct.
a left. a right; past the US Consulate into the roundabout.
past the marble. all the marble. follow until the light.
follow until you reach the light.
follow your footsteps into your light is reached.
follow your light.
always.
well, lately i tend to follow it closely.
i follow.
i follow the masses to the sortie, the exit? yes, the exit.
and up into the day. the river walk awaits.
the bridges will not walk themselves.
remember to breath, to walk, to pause, to sip a cafe, then walk on.
taking all forks, and hoping to return again.

namaste, your beautiful people!

soy italiano

"Choice is restorative when it reaches toward
an instinctive recognition of the earliest self.
As Dante recognized at the beginning of The Inferno:
What must we do in order to grow?"

*Frances Mayes, Under The Tuscan Sun

my book of choice, since finishing Shutter Island, has been a combo of
The Power of Travel (simply put, simply awesome), and
Under The Tuscan Sun.
i also dabble in my Let´s Go: Amsterdam travel book,
Washington Irving, and his Tales of The Alhambra,
alongside a spectacular guide book of Paris
with stunning color photos and pull out maps of the innards of the architecture.
but that book of Paris, has a downfall...for me at least, it´s in Spanish.
so my only knowledge of Paris, thus far, is tangled in Spanish-French phrases.
the historical facts glimmer in my rough translation and only make me exhausted.
i gotta get an English guide book, or a decent map of the land.

within my books of choice, i have come upon the phrase above...
"What must we do in order to grow?"
i love it. i repeat it when i take my runs looking into the eyes of the sierras.
i repeat it when on the bus into Granada.
i repeat it in rhythm with my huffs, up the hills on my way to The Alhambra,
i repeat it when buying my airline tickets online.
i repeat it, and repeat it.

i´m obviously searching for my answer.

upon my arrival in Bilbao, i was anxious to see the
mammoth Guggenheim structure.
i followed the signs that took me the wrong way.
i circled back.
i looked at my mini google map.
and circled back.
damn.
my independent spirit gave into the chill of the upcoming rain shower we,
in Bilbao, were about to have,
so i asked for directions.
a good smelling gentleman, with a vibrant scarf, frosted hair
and large Harry Carey gafas, looked a safe bet to me.
by asking, pointing, smiling, thanking, and gesturing,
i think i have found my way!

"Where are you from?"
"¿Como?"
"Where are YOU from? Italiano?"
"Uhh, ¡si! ¡Yo soy Italiano!"
"Claro...claro...and where in Italy are you from? ¿Where were you born?"
"¿Como?"
"Where...in Italy...the south of..."
"¡Si! ¡The south of Italy! Si."
"Where...Pisa..."
"¡Si! Pisa. Mi familia es en Pisa, tambien. Si."

i had taken on a new life. easy as Italian pie.

unfortunately, the family of 3 nearby overheard i was on my way to the gugg
andthat i was miraculously Italian! and guess what!
so were they!
so in Italian, the dad spoke to me,
hoping he could give me better directions than the Spaniard,
since i obviously must speak Italian better than Spanish,
and, guess what!
they were from Pisa, too!
i tried to then convince them i was actually Italian American,
and that neither my Italian or Spanish was very good.
but i thanked them for their help.
they still led me the correct way to the gugg with the best view.

my new fear: being American.
obviously.
being too American, being too submerged in pop culture, being overweight,
being unaware of political happenings, being too loud, being too confident,
blushing when taking about sex, not eating or choosing the "right" regional
food to eat, the fumbling quality of being
American-Peruvian and looking the way i look, and expected to
talk the way i look,
and not owning my flag of the North and South Americas, and i´m not Italian,
but they think i am, and that´s got to better than being American,
so i agree to it, because who wants to be American nowadays, anyway, right?
. . .right?

or is now the time i push through my fear of being exactly what i am.

an English speaking American-Peruvian, whose first language was Spanish,
and whose birthplace is Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and yes,
GO PACKERS! and go cheese!
and i also lived in Land O´Lakes, Florida for a total of 5 years, but now,
Chicago is home, GO BLACKHAWKS! and my Alma mater is
Columbia College Chicago,
Illinois, off the Roosevelt Red Line, Harrison will take you there, too.

and as my mom drove me into Chicago,
taking the Magnificent Mile south to the 11th Street Theater,
where we stayed at the Best Western across the street
(before the informative walk around the South Loop Campus the following day),
i remember looking up at the skyline, city ablaze, my city, my college, my home.
all the city stars blurry swollen eyes with small tears...i found home.

i found home.

i found home, again, in Lima, Peru.

i found home, again, on the north side of Chicago, on Oakley, Foster, Monitor.

i found home, again, seeing my mom at home, in Crete, home for good, from the hospital.

i found home.

i may find it in Paris, France, when reunited with my sweet Peruvian prima,
who speaks Spanish, French and English, in her home in Vanves,
with her new fiance, from France, after they met in Iowa, who traveled to Peru,
to ask for her hand in marriage in complete Spanish to my
Tio Gabriel and Tia Milagro.

i may find home, again, in the city built upon marshlands,
in The Netherlands,
with my spectacualr boyfriend of 5 years.

what must i do in order to grow.

for now, keep waking up every morning...and go out exploring.

namaste, and I will see you in Paris, France next!

WWBD?

WWBD?

What Would Bourdain Do?

Anthony Bourdain, you son of a b*tch, i love you so f*ing much.

as i deliriously stroll about in my wanderlust,

i sometimes pause and say "What would Bourdain do?"

and before the editor swoops in to alter my gut response, i say out loud,

"...his producers would know, because they give him his itinerary."

i could be shamefully incorrect, and maybe Bourdain IS Bourdain IS Bourdain,
and decides what he decides because he decides it.
on the spot.
off the cuff.
on a whim.
by the hair of his chin-y chin chin.

that guy is a bada**.
from the salt and pepper on top, slide down skinny jeans, cowboy boots
and cigarette to boot. . .you m*tha f*cka!

namaste, Anthony Bourdain.
may i be fortuitously blessed by seeing you in a cafe one of my traveling days.

today

with lunch devoured, i convince myself, briefly, that i have no room leftover
for any size or decadence of the current love in my life:chocolate.
that´s until exiting my lunch quarters, 7 steps to the left, wafts me inside...
i spy with my little eye - everything that is chocolate!!
at the far left, top row of the dulce delights,
is a Belgium waffle waxed in chocolate.

i must have it.
never had one of those before.
i must have that.
when i ask to buy it, there is a little confusement...confuse-cito...confuse-momentito...
befuddled by my plain request, the señora behind the counter
doesn´t think i should want that.

"¿you want that? ¿the whole thing? ¿to eat? ¿now? ¿you?"

"yes. now. please. ¡thank you!"

cheerfully, i reply.

i pay well over what a one way, 45 minute bus ride from Otura to Granada
shimmy's out from my change purse.
and gladly.

a lazy, European, waxed paper slip dresses,
even more so, teases,
over the wax body of chocolate dipped Belgium waffle.
8 viking thumb prints of waffle indents down, and 4 across.

wow. now i get the befuddlement.
this thing is f*ckin heavy.
. . .awwwwwwww yeaaaaaaah. . .
this is gonna be so f*ing good!

a hurried stroll to the nearest plaza, because i can tell,
i am gonna have to sit to appreciate this.
the benches face the fountain, that then form 3 outer rings,
and i choose a front row seat of the water play,
with the sun directly warming my backside.

all is lost, all has fallen silent,
i unhinge from this otherwise ordinary Thursday i am having and i bite...
oh.my.god.
i giggle loudly.
(my food has made me giggle!)
i have no words for this taste.

the giggle was loud enough for a band of hombres to signal me
to take a group foto of their dapper selves en frente de fountain.
i hesitate to set down my waffle dream scape as though i am about
to leave my purse unattended at the South Loop Club on a late night
Chicago Saturday, when it´s $2 Bud Lites.

no harm, my lovely.
we can finish our affair now.
uninterrupted in the plaza.
just chocolaty you and me.

yum and namaste.