I always believe myself when I say I"m going out for a walk to catch a breath of fresh air. Honestly, I do not intend that the walk should end where it usually ends up: in the kind of smoke-filled "fresh air" of which I am sure you will not approve. A few glasses of locally fermented wine, the very child of the native soil you called your own, sitting in the open air with a few peasant farmers outside in a simple hostelry with bare scrubbed wooden floors and scrubbed wooden tables — this is more to your taste. Not this post-ontologically overthematised techno-dwelling which stands as a monument to the "forgetfulness of being" and deracinated modern man (for whom beings have been displaced by their symbols and even the symbols of being have become so shop-worn that they no longer symbolise anything) that is my local.