In Kennedy Airport, while waiting for my flight to Barcelona, I watched a woman eat a kiwi, the most sensual of all the fruits.

Some might argue for the pomegranate's dominance in this category, but those who do have clearly not felt the totality of the kiwi experience.

I had in the past been teased occasionally about my own method of kiwi eating, which consisted of slicing the fruit in half and scooping out the meat with a serrated spoon, using the skin as a bowl, as one might eat a soft-boiled egg out of its shell. I had adopted this method only a few years earlier from my then father-in-law, a wise Greek man who had clearly put in his share of time pondering the intricacies of the kiwi.

I watched in awe as she bit into the orb as if it were an apple, devouring skin and all but taking care with her free hand to make sure that the juice didn't drip down off her chin onto her blouse. From my vantage I could not see if she was successful in this respect.

She proceeded to tear away the top part of the skin, at first with her teeth, and then with her hands, exposing a bite-size portion of the naked fruit which she then offered to her male companion. He accepted this nonchalantly, but declined the second such offering, and in fact after a few quiet words of explanation, wandered off to pursue some preoccupation.

Here was a man who was taking life for granted.