Greek Yogurt

I think one of the best things about Europe is the yogurt.  Anyone who as tasted European yogurt will agree with me.  Those of you who have not had this opportunity are missing out.  There is nothing like it in America.  Its so thick, and tart, and just plain creamy goodness.  I like to take my “yogurt bianca” with a teaspoon of honey stirred into it.  The combo of the tart and the sweet is other worldly. 

 And it is just little things like that, thinking about combining tartness and sweetness that you find the enegima of life.  We cannot taste the sweetness unless there is something tart right along side.  We cannot enjoy happiness until we have been sad.  Plain yogurt by itself is too tart.  Honey by itself is too sweet.  But combined together you can enjoy both to the fullest extent.  Perhaps this is how our sufferings become our joy, because without our sufferings joy would seem too sweet.

 Who knew that you can philosophise over yogurt?

To Write or Not to Write

Today while I was walking down the street I saw the Tumor Man again.  The Tumor Man is a begger that sits somewhere along the Vatican wall and begs.  I call him the Tumor Man (not to his face of course) because of the four or five large tumors that are growing on his scalp.  Sometimes beggars fake such things, but these are real, you can just tell, they are too real.  Now that I write about him I realize that I have never taken time to find out his name, something I should do because everyone deserves the dignity of a name, even if the person is a poor beggar.  I am sure when he was born his mother did not name him Tumor Man.

 I wonder when he was little if he ever thought he would end up begging around the walls of St. Peter’s?  What a life, it must be such a degrading thing to have dreams, and then to watch them disintagrate one by one.