Stepping off the plane that November morning, six weeks after the terrorist attacks on the US, I was amazed by how bright and white everything is in Qatar. At 6 AM, the sun was blinding that morning, reflecting off the white buildings. I put on my sunglasses, mostly to protect my eyes but also to conceal my thoughts. I didn't want anyone to be able to read me: to see my fear or to know just how otherly I felt. Suddently fascinated with Orwell's thought crimes, I was convinced that if anyone knew what I was really consdiering I'd surely find myself in the clink.

We filed into the modern airport as I wondered who had designed it. With its optimistic glass walls and zany angles, the airport reminded me of I.M. Pei's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum in Cleveland, Ohio, which made me giggle deep down inside, convinced that my normally spontaneous laughter would arouse the locals' suspicion.

Poised to look nonchalant, I offered no visible reaction to the man behind the counter who said in cautious English that we'd have to wait "for just 10 minutes" to clear customs. With his walkie-talkie, he pointed toward the plastic-seated waiting area and told us to make ourselves comfortable.

Sitting there, watching him work, in his collared and cuff-linked, starched white gown and red-and-white checkered head cloth, I was amazed to see every man in the airport dressed similarly. The few women I saw there wore rhinestone-studded burqas--so unlike those that I remember seeing at home in New York while watching CNN footage of Afghanistan. These were mysterious, invitingly secretive burqas, offering just a glimpse of the stiletto-heeled, expertly-painted ladies beneath them.

Don't ask my why, but even though we had all mailed and e-mailed countless documents, including copies of our passports, visa requests and photographs, our entry into Qatar was hopelessly delayed. After more than three hours of waiting for our stamps of approval, Mr. "Just 10 More Minutes" obviously felt sorry for us, especially our nicotine-addicted colleauges, and suggested that those who cared to should feel free to smoke in bathrooms, while those who were hungry should enter the special VIP area for a continental breakfast of sorts. It was then that I first got a glimpse of Qatar. Our host offered us a spread of snacks, including instant, but much-appreciated Nescafé, big boxes of tangy orange juice, bowls of spectacular nuts and sugary breakfast rolls. Always appreciative of hospitality, I was elated. The gatekeepers of the Doha airport looked amused by our thrill at seeing coffee and eventually we were allowed to enter the country--without our passports--after a four-hour wait.

We left the airport by mini-van and headed down a four-lane highway. I remember looking out the window, quietly amazed to see advertisements for American fast-food restaurants. Somewhere deep down inside I had assumed that Middle Easterners hated Americans. so their choice of snack food quietly shocked me, but I said nothing. Checking into the Gulf Hotel, I was still on my best behavior. I remember sitting on cozy sofas, casually watching al Jazeera on the big-screen TV in the air-conditioned lobby, while we waited to be checked into our rooms. The hotel manager offered us chilled cans of Arabian Coca-Cola, 7-Up and Fanta and told us lunch would be served at 1 PM.

When I first arrived I was unconsciously suspicious of these cuff-linked men with the red-and-white head cloths. I perceived them as powerful and incomprehensible. I worried they could jail me for crimes I didn't know I had committed.

We finally checked into our rooms, which were certainly comfortable enough. Located outside the secured "perimeter"that was heavily guarded by local police, the Gulf Hotel is located about a half a mile from Doha's famed Corniche, where locals stroll along the water and fishermen spend the afternoon relaxing.

Right after we checked in, I changed into the gauzy white clothing that I bought in London's Southall and headed outside to see the neighborhood. What immediately struck me was the scarcity of women in Doha. Though in truth there weren't many men on the streets, there were positively no women outside. I assumed women weren't legally privileged enough to go outdoors.

My colleagues and I walked around the area, attracting the stares of locals. In search of souvenir trinkets, we went through the local markets and stores, but found none of the handicrafts that Westerners love to buy while traveling. Someone made a joke that if you want to buy an authentic Qatari product, you should just go to the gas station.

Although I actually liked the Gulf Hotel, I was grateful to move into the Alfarden Garden Villas the following day. From the second I arrived in the Gulf Hotel, I had felt trapped. There was no restaurant there and, even traveling in a group, women created too much of a stir walking around the area. I remember looking out the window of my Gulf Hotel room, just wishing I could slip out into a cafe or even the local Kentucky Fried Chicken for a lunch, rather than wait for the lunch that finally arrived two hours late.

Once the conference began, and I was luxuriously situated in the butler equipped Alfarden Gardens, life in Qatar starting looking up for me. Assigned to write local color pieces, I spent every day playing the tourist. I contacted a local guide and set off for a tour of Doha. Dressed in casual Western clothing, my first tour guide was an Egyptian man who spoke perfect English. He had an easygoing personality and quick wit that initially hid his disgust at Western culture. Driving a modest sports coupe, he cruised around Doha, pointing out government buildings other and points of interest.

I remember him mentioning that a particularly beautiful park in the center of town was for women only. Surprised that a public place could be off limits to what I assumed was half the population, I asked my guide whether this upset the men who were excluded. He told me that Westerners just didn't understand in what high esteem women are held in Qatar. "They are privileged," he explained. "That's why they wear the burqas. They are privileged."

I must have had a look of confusion on my face because he immediately explained that the burqa is a privilege because "if a woman is very ugly or very old, no one will ever know. She has the privilege of no one knowing."

Our next stop was an open-air market, where locals bargained for household supplies like mops and brooms, inexpensive clothing and oversized luggage. There we stopped into a falcon shop that positively enchanted me. Inside we found a half dozen Qatari men seated on upholstered benches, sipping very sweet tea from demi tasse cups. Poised there, chatting with each other in Arabic, the men held their falcons on their rigidly bent left arms.

Against a landscape-painted wall depicting a desert hunt scene, the shop displayed two dozen live falcons that were for sale. My guide explained that the falcons wore leather hoods to prevent them from getting frightened or from hurting themselves because they miss their owners.

Convinced that I never would have found the falcon shop on my own, I was grateful to my guide for showing me a place that was so alien to my New York City life back home. Hearing the guide's stories about the role of the falcon in Middle Eastern life amazed me. He told me that falcons cost between $150,000 to $250,000, depending on how well they hunt. He also explained that falcons are considered such valued members of a man's family that they are only allowed to fly first-class on planes. I tried to imagine what it would be like to see a bird way up there in the big-cheese section of a plane, but couldn't.

At the end of our tour, my guide took me to a local cafe for more tea and to chat a bit about his life in Qatar. I tried to avoid the subject of Afganistan, but I couldn't. With the constant coverage of it on CNN and al Jazeera, I suspect the whole world was talking about the the war that night.

It was then that my guide told me that the US Army had knocked down the World Trade Center. Convinced that greedy military people wanted to earn more money with enhanced combat pay, my guide expressed his love for Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. He told me that George Bush and Tony Blair are actually the crazy people and that Americans could never understand this because the Western press was lying about everything. He asked me a question that evening that bounced around my mind for the rest of the trip: "What proof do you have," he asked me with a searing look in his eyes, "that bin Laden did anything? What proof has your government given you?" I couldn't answer his question. I had no proof. The following day, I decided to go on a desert safari. While I assumed my guide would be the same, a different man arrived to take me out for a ride in his 4x4. A local Qatari man, my new guide was dressed in a crisp white, silver-cuff-linked thoub. Smiling warmly, he looked almost exactly like the American actor Dom DeLouise.

We drove south from Doha for about a hour. Utterly charming, he told me in broken English about his wonderful life in Qatar. Blissfully happy and positively obsessed with cars, he told me about the used Cadillacs and Rolls Royces that he sold at his part-time job As fate would have it, the subject of the war came up again. Determined not to talk about it again, I poised myself to agree with whatever he said. Just the day before, a Qatari man had been killed after firing on American soldiers. "He was a crazy man," my guide told me. "Those soldiers are our guests. They are keeping us safe."

"Safe?" I wondered to myself. "Does that mean you don't hate Americans? Without my asking, my guide explained that people in Qatar are worried about Saddam Hussein invading their country, as he did to Kuwait. "We cannot protect ourselves," he said with a smile. "Americans are helping us and there are alot of them here. No one knows how many. It is a secret, but we see them here."

"How do you know they are American?" I asked "Sometimes because they are dressed in their uniforms, but mostly because they have these big strong bodies. They are very fit people." As we bounced along the soft sandy desert just South of Doha, my Qatari guide was supremely kind. Inside his truck, he had a refrigerated compartment filled with cold drinks. He offered me one.

It was driving in his S.U.V., sipping a can of mango juice that I began to see Qatar and its people very differently. I remembered that day in the airport, waiting endlessly to enter the country and being afraid to say anything to anyone about how tired I was and how hungry I felt. Now sitting here, cruising along the beautiful desert scape as the sunset, in the care of my guide, everything looked different.

I saw a kind man who loved his country and wanted me to have a great visit. Kind and smart, he'd even thought of bringing me a cool drink to make our desert excursion more pleasant. When he drove very quickly over the sand dunes, he slowed the car to a stop, looked over at me and asked me if I was comfortable. "I know you have come to the desert to relax," he explained. Please let me know if I am driving too quickly." Meeting this tour guide changed my visit and strongly influenced the rest of my trip. Once I understood how sincere Qatari hospitality is, I knew that whenever I had any problem and needed help, the easiest way to solve it was to go to a "man in white" as I called the local Qatari men. Seeing how they operated, I changed my thinking completely. I left Qatar ten days after I arrived with a completely new view of the Middle East. I learned that above all else the people of Qatar are reasonable people, who love to treat their guests like family.

When I returned to New York, everyone asked me about Qatar and I heard in their questions the same prejudice that I subconsciously held before I went there. I told anyone who would listen that Qatar is precisely the opposite of what you might imagine. It is a safe place to visit with extraordinary security measures. I learned that rather than scary, the local people are actually very friendly and far more hospitable than most people. I learned that when in doubt you need only ask a "man in white" for help. They are only too happy to assist you.