Listening to the forceful gust of a cool, clear waterfall, I realised that city dwellers like myself are terribly misinformed about urbanity and being westernised. The West for all the Davos-trotting types is this big, bad but magical world where deals are clinched in posh hotels, or designer labels acquired behind spanking, glass storefronts. But the same lot is also guilty of mistaking the West to be only a hotbed of materialism. So the humble Hindu prays for the safe return of his brethren who are travelling abroad, lest they be devoured by humongous shopping malls or blinded by the bright lights, big city syndrome. But I hate to admit that though Fransesca and Hans have often enjoyed the lavish breakfast buffet at Interlaken's snooty Victoria hotel, their weekends are idled away in the rustic pleasures of gardening or just plain moon worship. Yes, they shop in supermarkets, but that doesn't make them 'mall rats'. Weekends in the country, that's what every God-fearing, hard-working New Yorker, Londoner or Parisian seems to desire. And thus, these bustling cities which we consider to be vast casinos of material pleasure, are only a motorway away from God's own country, be it the East Hamptons, Surrey or Provence.