Chances are you'll never get in there, but if you wanted to try, all you have to do is enter the big room where the press and NGOs receive their accreditation badges. There you will find the room has been divided in half with a carpeted partition. Just beyond the partition is an innocent-looking dark brown , wooden door. Get past that rounded door and you'll find Al Dona paradise.

Hear the beautiful young woman passionately twinkling Kenny Rodgers love song "Lady" on the baby grand piano. Float through the tapestry-covered halls into the side room with its merlot-colored walls covered by burgundy and chardonnay-colored brocade drapes. As the Maitre slides your chair out from the yellow and periwinkle clothed table, he will offer you a cool drink. Bombay martini, straight up with an olive? Single malt scotch on the rocks with a twist? Your every wish is his very reason for breathing.

For lunch you will chose from a king's feast of Arabian salads: juicy-red tomatoes, delicately-sliced miniatures cucumbers or a crisp corn relish. Perhaps you will select masterfully sautéed white fish in a lemon-butter sauce, oven-browned new potatoes seasoned with garlic, saffron-scented Arabian rice or a mixture of fresh spring peas and sweet carrots. Indulge too much, however, and you will miss all the tangy exotic fruits available for dessert.

You'll will feel so relaxed, you'll barely be able to muster the will to leave the compound. Perhaps you'll need a dip in the blue pool to perk yourself awake and prepare for the trip back into the sauna-like parking lot where smarty-pants journalists, bohemian bourgeois NGOs and diplomats desperately shuffle around begging for rides to hotels whose names they cannot pronounce.