Marrakesh doesn't have a door. It has a hatch, and you have to knock.
Once you enter through it (plus a curtain), a lush, exotic room of couches, textiles, and knee-high tables awaits you. You lounge on the couches, eating a five-course meal with your fingers, the service staff coming by between courses to wash your hands with warm cloths. You get comfortable, and you sit and chat for hours. The lights dim, and an enticing belly dancer entertains you for a good fifteen minutes.
You try to remember you're in D.C., but you're not in D.C. You're in Africa, and somehow you have way more wealth and power than you do back home.