Free Stop Being Mean to Yourself: A Story About Finding the True Meaning of Self-Love by Melody Beattie Page A

that's already meanspirited enough, many of us have taken all that anger and all that fear and turned it on ourselves. We're being mean to ourselves. This is a book about not doing that."
    She paused. I thought we were done. Then she came right back at me. "What could the people in the countries you've visited possibly have to do with that?" she asked.
    "We have things—experiences, emotions, lessons—in common with all people," I said quietly, "no matter where we live."
    "Explain that, please," she said.
    I took a deep breath. Here we go again, I thought.
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    chapter 6
    Shisha
    C airo, the densely populated capital of Egypt and the largest city in Africa, extends from the east bank of the Nile to the edge of the Sahara—the vastest desert on this planet, a desert almost the size of the United States of America. In this city of extreme contrast between old Arab architecture and glistening, new highrise buildings, many people depend as much on horses, camels, and donkeys for transportation as they do on buses, cars, and airplanes. Islamic religion is the law of the land in Page 78
    this ancient center for trade, art, and the Muslim culture. While contemporary Cairo has become a Middle Eastern hub for publishing, radio, and television, some say the major export of this mystical desert capital is still life after death.
    The moment I stepped off the plane in Cairo, I knew the lighter part of my travels had just begun. The heaviness—the terror and the basic survival issues of Algeria, the poverty and desperation of Morocco—lifted. After darting through the battlefields of Algiers, walking through the Cairo airport felt almost the same as being home in America.
    I had arranged for a shuttle and a driver, who I was told would be a woman, to meet me at the airport; all I had to do was collect my luggage, pass through customs, and locate the car. As I waited in line to show my passport, I couldn't help noticing the signs plastered all over the walls. The huge posters with bold print were not to be ignored:
    "WELCOME TO EGYPT. DRUG USERS WILL EITHER BE EXECUTED OR IMPRISONED FOR LIFE. HAVE A GOOD STAY."
    Okay, I thought, I will have a good stay .
    I showed the customs officer my passport, cleared the security check, then headed toward the front door of the airport. It feels so freeing not to have to be protected on my way to the hotel, I thought, remembering my experience at the Algerian airport.
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    Seconds after this thought crossed my mind, an extremely polite young man in a uniform darted across the room, intercepting me. He asked where I was going. I said I had been told a shuttle and a woman driver were waiting out front for me. He looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
    "I don't think so," he said.
    I insisted that I had a driver waiting. He said he would watch my luggage while I checked. I walked to the street in front of the airport and looked around. I did not see anybody looking for me—particularly a woman. I walked back into the airport to the young man and my luggage.
    "The shuttle isn't here yet," I said. "I'll wait."
    "I'll find you a driver," he insisted.
    I walked over to the money booth to exchange some American currency for Egyptian pounds. The polite young man went to arrange a taxi. When I returned to my luggage, five polite young men now waited to escort me and my baggage to the taxi. Each young man at least touched one piece of my luggage. Then each polite young man stuck his hand out, waiting for a gratuity. This could get expensive, I thought, sticking a few pounds in each outstretched palm.
    I entered the cab, gave the driver the name of the downtown hotel where I had reservations, then settled back in the seat. The driver pulled out into traffic. Soon I was on the edge of my seat.
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    There were no marked lanes for traffic, at least none that drivers observed. Cars darted into oncoming traffic, passing on either the left or the right side. Drivers insisted on squeezing through