Today my sister paid for my pedicure.

It was much needed. The soles of my feet had been exposed for the past week to the strikingly hot red sand that lay in rest across the plains of the Jordanian desert. They had now become hardened and coarse much like the mind-set of a young soldier who has witnessed the dire extremities of the human race.

As a man who prefers the freedom a pair of flip flops provides over all other forms of footwear, it is a sensible idea to go for a pedicure once in a while.

I must stress that it wasn’t in todays plan to get a pedicure, but my sister rang and invited me to breakfast and then offered to join her for one afterwards. I had no other pertinent plans for the day apart from rest and recuperation, so I accepted this generous invitation.

The price of fuel continues to increase day by day, the news continues to inject fear into the minds of the common man and woman. Humans are becoming more addicted to their cellular devices by each incremental minute. I am no exception, although I am trying harder to fight back.

Anyway, back to the pedicure. Today this visit to the sleek upmarket nail salon is indicative of the huge discrepancy we have between the two different worlds that make up our planet. The West and The East. One centred around rules, riches and routine. The other freedom, flexibility and family. More and more these days I feel as if I was born in the wrong one.

Imagine the sheer audacity of spending £25 on this pedicure I am having right now. Or £14 on a gin and tonic, which I have done one to many times. It’s pretty stupid. I’m sure Abdullah would never think of doing such a thing. I guess I will have to give you some further information as to who he is. A long haired liberated Bedouin man in his twenties I met last week when I told you the soles of my feet had become hardened. A free man. He seemed happy, content with the way the wind sang to him, driving his tattered jeep through the desert without a proper functioning key, tyre or seats. He’d laugh at the very notion of a pedicure, maybe it’s a western thing.

Imagine spending £300,000 on a 1 bedroom flat and not inviting everyone that passes by inside for a cup of tea. Abdullah invited me into his house that lay on the edge of desert, his house didn’t even have a proper roof or floor, yet he invited me in for tea 2 minutes after we met. This was the East.

Imagine not saying hello to each and every one of your neighbours and meandering into a long hearty conversation about the wonders of our land, tightness of our community and the wisdom of our forefathers long gone.

Imagine being a slave to your watch and calendar, allowing meetings to dictate your life. I knew Abdullah would never allow such a thing to happen.

Abdullah was born in the East, The Wadi Rum Desert in Jordan. I was born in the West, London, England. We live in different worlds. Rooftop bars overlooking cities marinated in luxury, convenience and extravagance. Stock market volatility and fixed rate mortgages. Brain numbing solitude coupled with a void of custom.
 
I have always felt more at home in the East. The older I get the more I realise that life really does not have to be complicated, it’s really extremely simple. These westernised ways seem to have a way in diluting my soul. How dare a traffic light tell me when I can go and when I cannot. If I walked around the city without shoes, I would be deemed unstable. The West loves rules and rulemaking. I hate them. Rules always feel like iron shackles that curtail expression and living to me.

Abdullah was a great reminder that although today I am in the West, the mentality of the East remains within me.

Nonetheless, today my sister paid for my pedicure and I am grateful.