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.

the hills

day 4 of a routine run in vacant Otura, ghost town burbs.

in Otura, there is an alarmingly new golf course called
Santa Clara Golf Club,
so very near the house i am living. sprawling is what jumps off my tongue.
lots of air. makes me dizzy to lift my arms. eerily quiet.
those also want to jump.

on my most recent runs i have surprised myself by literally running through a fear of mine:
murderers.

i, maybe unwisely, chose to run, solo, up a new paved street...
and when i say street, i refer to 90/94 completely void of a kitten whisper.
emp-ty.
sprawling, remember?
the hill was steep. real f*ing steep. so much that when i thought i had reached blue heaven,
i still had yet to sift through the stratus.

i pause to take a breath, my body in full tilt, no human to be spotted for kilometers...
and, now, i freak. i flip (just a bit).
oh, man, my mom´s gonna kill me. i shouldn´t be this far away.
i should turn back, i should run faster, i should. . .

what was that. . . ?

i´m a city girl to the core. i know this about myself now. i take a look over my shoulder every 30-45 seconds, i am meticulous in checking the zippers on my purse, my wallet, my pockets, my pants, i can dissolve into the jostle on a bus or train or speeding metro, hail a taxi, f*ckin give the bird to anyone no matter age or respect for any human soul. bring it.

but in the wild. . .

god save my little broken body.

the wild. . . i lost it.
my instinct turned me restless.
i was cursing myself for watching The Hills Have Eyes,
upon being soullessly abandoned on my run.
dammit, sh*t, they are watching me. sh*t. i don´t have to feel that they are watching me, because they are actually watching me right now. dammit, they´ve been watching me this whole f*cking run! i set myself up! stupid! oh, man, my mom´s gonna kill me!

my red blood surges through the hair in my ears, my antennae go erect,
and i gotta get the f*ck off this hill,
down and up the next huge hill, and around that grand bend in the highway
and f*ckin book it.
i´m gonna die out here...they are coming.
is that a blood splattered chainsaw whine, or a used John Deere?
chainsaw, i bet.

all i can think and feel is ache, and all i see are mirages of tattered, dusty,
men-like bodies
dragging,
what is that,
a rusted Shepperd's crook?

a f*ing Shepperd crook thingý?!

too much imagination, too much quiet, too much Tarintino for one dry afternoon.
so i Gump it.
i run.
like Hell is heavy on my heels. like my curiosity has dismembered my cat.
and sun dried it´s skin on a public lamppost.

i get a bit terrified when situations allow me to dwell, and daydream...
i am my own worst nightmare and author of my bloody memoir.
don´t answer the door when it´s a creepy knock,
don´t go upstairs you sh*ting idiota!
don´t get in that car because it´s possessed and it´s going to kill you next!
(i watched Christine not long before i came to spain...thanks, bert.)

don´t worry, mom. i stick to where i can still hear a dog bark on my runs.
and before i reached my gate, i thanked myself for never giving in to peer pressure
for the sanity of a European travelers soul...
i have never rented the Hostel movies.

namaste, and "i´ll be right baaaaack!"

alhambra pics

Woo hoo!

my bad ass friend, Washington Irving

"I made it!"

moi!

me inside the door - at the door - inside the door

Puerta de Justicia

MORE PHOTOS CO COME OF THE GENERALIFE, but i gotta download them first!

alhambra

ahhh, yes, my traveling friends, The Alhambra...

say it. you´ll love to keep saying it.

Alhambra.
according to my aboutspain.com newsletter...

Damian Corrigan writes:
The Moorish fortress, palace and gardens of the Alhambra in Granada have been named as the most popular tourist attraction of 2009, according to an article in El Pais: The Alhambra is the Most Visited (in Spanish). It beat the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona into second place. Third was the Prado, the most famous museum in Madrid.

sweet. 2 checked off that list!

it´s a 10 fold crisp and delightful morning in granada.
after my cafe con leche and churros con chocolate in the Bib Rambla Plaza, i exit to my right.
hazy and chipper does the morning huff and vendors flush out into the side streets.
every body, every vessel, every postcard, every pashmina.
all motos, all rebajas, all gypsies, all securitas.

every fiber of everything yawns onto the streets.
i visualize steamed, cherry carpeting exiting out every salida.
welcome.
welcome in, and buenas!
the sun with her fingertips, oh my,
i spy with my little eye
everything that is golden...

my audioguia for today is none other than, Washington Irving.
that bad ass!
lived in The Alhambra, a writer, a storyteller...a secret keeper of sacred grounds.
(look him up if you are interested, please!)
he, Irving, tells me to "delight yourself" in the surroundings of my choosing.
so, i do.

i wade in the Generalife for hours.
much attention is to water and the preciousness of it, so even when i must
return to the entrance, a 10 minute fast trot, at the gate, to release my bladder,
i quickly return to the site i left lazily dreaming, and continue, in my"delighting."

The Generalife, "laid out like a Persian carpet in a grey olive grove," Washington croons
in my ear, as i slip into soft saturation in this climate condition of too much decadent air,
too much water,
too much movement,
too much breathe from the Jardin de los Cipreses o de la Sultana y el Escalera del Agua.
it´s all too much, Washington, that i can only say i will be back again tomorrow
to collect more of whatever it is you wish to feed into me.
i will gladly succumb.

an earthy, namaste.

spring in winter

hundreds of blush roses, amarillo y nata
scruff cardigan navy and silver crowned ancient gentlemen
who step gently in 3
left
right
cane.
long cubes of water.
dusty pools settled for the winter.
and all seems a bit shy in the january sol
except for the wrinkled distinguished...
father-in-laws to tight-faces of tan boys who confiscated their daughters.
"jefe" in good humor but the generations between them are
as long as liquid,
as delicate as dust is history.

and between men,
between a sprint and a stroll,
the parque in silencio tender with blossom bound tight to unfold. . .
and this winter is warm for those with no cold memories.

as this sol beats like green should be hearalded soon,

i ate the spring today.

plucked each velvet pansy petal

each sol soaked leaf of palm,

and drank the wind lust clean

open gulp after open gulp without knowledge of when i may drink again.

*written in the Parque Federico Garcia Lorca, granada
january 18, 2010 Gina Cornejo

overload

damn...
i have a lot of tickets to purchase.

i am counting about 6 at the moment...
that´s a whole sh*t load of planes and trains.
no automobiles. people drive just as horrific here, as on LSD.

the drug and the Drive.

namaste, your flight is now boarding...

the why

i remember when money was the dollar and euros were souvenirs
when coffee was black with half and half and splenda on the go
yeah, and when sugar was sugar, where equal was blue
and a roll of Tums was at any stop n´shop,
not a special trip to the farmacia
neon green and red light expanding hallucination of a
70´s christmas christian cruz,
so fetching, you think you always have an ailment, a reason,
a why to entrada.
so, how come i can´t find my sick voice for prayer in
cryptic holy catedrals with high flung arches by dust and bone architects
who created the silk of heavens
from slabs of white marble in the name of god
of queen
of money
of allah
of arabic scripture
i gotta remember to download my digital pictures
and post them on the web
to show all my friends
to show myself
to remember the reason, if there is still one,
of why i am here.

because i remember my love so close to me as my own breath in.

and breathing at half capacity is an ailment for sure.

my reason shifted when my money took new code
when a Jackson was a twenty,
and the King was still alive.
so i keep in motion i sleep in horseshoes and i wake in a new stable
every bold, red, and yellow morning to be able to know the why.

the why.
i had to go, i had to go now, i had to go then, so as to be here again, now.

i have since abandoned my why my explanation my intentions,
however reasonable and irrational, however happy happenstance-able
however i wrapped myself up and delivered me HERE---i no longer know.

but i do know that time is movement.
one flag of one country quickly folded into one language of one region and onto the next.
i am traveling for traveling´s sake.
the why remains chameleon clear.
the why exhales from my luggage lungs.
the why borrows my tweezers.
Why sips from my cafe, but is decent enough to pay my bus fare.
Why underlines hostels that have potential in Amsterdam, as i investigate train tickets to Paris.
oh, why...
paul gaugin knows where my why hides:
"i shut my eyes in order to see"

it´s all so chameleon clear.

namaste, seekers.

*written january 17, 2010, granada
Gina Cornejo

mercado de san miguel

fotos fotos y mas fotos!
a bit outside of the Puerta Del Sol in Madrid, is a spectacular place called
Mercado de San Miguel,
and i fell in quick love.
it´s bustling like Marshal Field´s on Valentine´s Day at lunch hour.
the frutas tempt you through the floor to ceiling glass exterior,
the champagne tower bubbles, the cheese is chunked off fresh from the rind,
the seafood writhes and drips healthy water,
while the flowers to be bought are pungent and winking...life is alive here!
taste is in motion!
stomachs were never so happy and ears never so delighted!
I love this place and went back often during my Madrid strolls.
buying grand cherries, and think slivers of salmon...
i didn´t indulge in the champagne, although if i did,
i wouldn´t have bought by the glass, but by the bottle.

this is one of my favorite places for sure.
namaste, food lovers!

you in the office, baby

"you in the office, baby!"

*TRAINING DAY, Detective Alonzo Harris played by Denzel Washington

as most of you know, i run. i like to run, it´s super cheap, it give the notion of progress,
i have slick New Balance 769 lightweight running shoes, and i have thoughts upon thoughts to keep my mind nourished as i put on foot in front of the other...for hours.

if an astronomically, critically, crippling event occurs in my life, that will be the day i commit to a marathon...and i could pull it off sans warm-up stretch, sans bagel breakfast, in my grandpa´s stout Johnny Cash jeans. it´s easy...my thoughts are fuel. i am jet pack. i am steam.

so, during my 2 hour run today, pink Sierra Nevada mountains yawning to meet me at every hilltop, i remembered this:

"Damn, Gina...you don´t have a job."

not the most optimistic or majestic thought to accompany the van gogh backdrop, but sh*t,
i was right.
i was right...right-left-right-left-right-
sh*t.
the Andalusian sunshine and woodsmoke from cold chimneys
make my stride widen, my teeth grit,
so, as i progress up left-right-left i realize right-
and remember this:

"You in the office, baby!"

sh*t, i forgot!
THIS, this, this, here, is my office, i´ve been clocked in since december 28, 2009, baby!
i have planning in far off planners, and cold calling, and researching maps, i lace up my shoes with a double knot, i carry my passport, i order my cafe con churros, i trek around town, i read the plaques that say the names that list the birth, the death, i revel, i reel, i dream, i question, i question my curiosity, i read, i question what i am doing in this position, i accept myself daily, and i reject myself daily, i breathe into the future restless and lost, i surprise myself by who i can be, who i could be, not just here, but there, for my friends my family myself, i e-mail, i facebook-it, i take the trash out, i feed the little one, i shower, i get out of bed and some days that´s the most courageous thing you can do, and i do it.
i am clocked in, m*tha f*ckas.

and the future will take care all its own.
with me without me, it´ll widen the stride to swallow me in it´s yawn.
and, that´s fine with me...it´s gotta be fine with me.

so, i begin as Detective Alonzo Harris.
f*ckin pumped, cock of the walk, the here and now, baby!

and, at my end, i am Forrest Gump.
at the end of his running days, he simply turns around to go home.
jet pack at a low hum, and out of fuel. a complicated satisfied.

but, until then...i´m on the clock, baby.

namaste.

calle azucena

as my great grandma geib would say,"well, i made it!"
she was inching towards 100 years old, so anywhere she arrived to was considered making it!
this is me, as real as it gets:
hours of travel, lost luggage, found luggage, hours of delays on the runway, new lost luggage...
it made it, grandma!
and, yes, this is the actually view from my window and balcony...namaste, mi casa en Otura.

on the go-go

namaste, you m*tha f*ckas!

apologies for the delay, apologies, apologies...
but, i was on the go-go.

a have so much to share, so much to b*tch about, so much weight to lose,
so much more to eat in this damn country!

i will do an on the go-go-location-whereabouts-nutshell,
because, yes, my honoring of the namaste m*tha f*cka divine in all does have to have
a classy setting, intriguing company, and my ears and eyes (and high level of gastronomic intentions) on the prize, people.

so, me, on the go-go, started out in madrid...

"...when we last met our hero..."


MADRID
*hung out a lot in, around, and down and over the Puerta Del Sol
*began reading the book SHUTTER ISLAND
*ended up redeeming myself at every meal with more than 2 or 3 glasses of wine with the woman of the household...I even got a gorgeous scarf from the "Three Kings"...hmmm, must have done something right!
*Prado Museo, Thyssen Museo, but no favorite, the Reina Sofia. closed. every single f*ckin day.
*snow...lots of it...
(*lesson here learned: patience, endurance, curiosity)

BILBAO
*4 1-2 hour bus ride (comfy, spacious) through amazing sites only to land not far from the Guggenheim. damn. simply rockin´!
*did my own arrival tour of the outside of the Gugg and across the ria...smiled a lot!
*met up with the woman of the household that i am staying with in granada, and her other tour guide, whom i will now refer to as Lone Ranger. awesome to see a friendly, well informed, spanish-english speaking face! she allowed me to accompany her, Lone Ranger, and the 24 college students from Minnesota, along a snippet of the Camino de Santiago tour she has been leading since January 1st. she´s great!
*had delicious tapas...succulent, and knees weakening...this is the night i began my battle with loose bowels.
(*lesson here learned: remind me to discuss how i proclaimed myself as italian. then as italian american. better yet, i will remind you.)

BURGOS into FROMISTA
*ummm, hmmm...i recall a cathedral...
*i recall a pleasant hotel...
*i think...no, wait, that was Leon...
*what the hell did we do ...oh! i got to know Lone Ranger...if you call that getting to "know" someone. he´s Lone Ranger for a reason, people...many reasons.
(*lesson here learned: namaste, Lone Ranger. we won´t ever meet again. but, it was interesting and fun, sometimes. other times it was a dental exam. obviously, i will elaborate more on my lessons learned from meeting him. again, namaste, and no, for those of you thinking it, this was nothing sexual. no way. no how. no never ever.)

LEON
*thought this city was trash upon first eyeing it up.
*ended up cuddling up to Leon...lovely Leon...
*too much wine, too much beer, not enough salty gambas.
*awesome free breakfast in the hotel.
*felt like shopping, but haven´t worked out in over 2 weeks. just browsed, and loved it.
*took a solid sh*t!
(*lesson here learned: gotta let the city breathe, gotta let it open up how it wants to open up to you. and, damn, food is sooooo good. even better topping it all off with cafe con leche and a glass and a half of wine.)

GRANADA
*8 maybe 9 hours in the car on the ride from Leon to Otura
*i know know the CURIOUS GEORGE movie and BOB THE BUILDER and FIREMAN SAM so well that i can sing you the theme songs backwards, and tell you which Hollywood actor has done the voice overs for each character.
*raining hard all the way home.
*obtained a small rash.
(*lesson here learned: damn, i am a bit tired...)

i am at home base right now, and will be for awhile.
i do care to elaborate more, and i will, on my lessons learned and other facts about my snippet of a trip to the north of españa!

but for tonight, namaste, and sleep tight!