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Orlando, Fla. - Tuesday, and here I am at Walt Disney World's Coronado Springs Resort, where the bars of soap are stamped with the image of Mickey Mouse, where Jiminy Cricket and Pinocchio illustrate the safety instructions posted on the guestroom doors and where Mensa, the organization for certified smarty-pants, is about to begin its Diamond Anniversary world celebration.

People at this moment are registering. They receive lanyards and white name badges and stickers to put on their name badges that have a code: Blue means the wearer is single; green means the wearer likes to be hugged; yellow means hugging is OK but ask first; and red means don't hug, don't even ask to hug, because if you want to know the truth, I don't want a hug.

I already have registered and received a name badge, which is entirely red, which signifies to everyone that I am a member of the media and not really one of them. I am, in a sense, embedded, like a war correspondent hanging out with the Marines.

The advantage of having a red name badge is that people are willing to speak slowly to me and to explain their jokes. The disadvantage is that I am not allowed to attend any of the events that might make Mensa look silly, such as Wednesday night's date auction.

The reason for this, I am told, is that journalists have attended Mensa events in the past and have, believe it or not, yanked things out of context and made the whole Mensa thing sound stupid. Mensa is wary of being sucker-punched by journalists with agendas.

To become a Mensan, you must score in the top 2 percent on an accepted, standardized intelligence test, and you must pay a modest $52 a year in dues. That's it.

Mensans seize upon this as evidence of their egalitarian spirit. Mensa is Latin for table, and that table, Mensans say, is a round one. Anyone who is demonstrably smart enough can pull up a chair.

But imagine an organization that requires of its members no more than that they be pretty, prettier than 98 percent of everyone else, and that what is considered pretty is defined by standards agreed upon by the pretty people who are already members.

Here he is, at Disney World of all places, in August of all times of the year, to spend six days with 2,200 people from 40 countries and 49 states unified neither by a common cause nor by a common interest, but rather, by a common fetish: their own naked intellect.

Wednesday, and I have just been introduced to Russ Bakke, who is chairman of American Mensa, and to his wife, Cookie. Russ, a large, sun-ripened man who is a retired software engineer, grew up in Westby, Wis., where his father owned a gas station.

Cookie, who has a mane of blond hair and is as animated as Russ is reserved, tells me how they met. It was 1979. They were at a Mensa gathering at the Biltmore Hotel in New York. She was wearing a button that signaled a willingness to be hugged. Russ, after a brief introduction, bent Cookie over and kissed her. I will spare you the details, though she did not, other than to say sex was initiated, though apparently not consummated, on the 16th floor of the hotel, in the hallway, just outside the elevator, on the bottom shelf of a serving cart.

While that may be true for some Mensans, particularly the baby boomers, Cookie says, it is certainly not true for all. She warns me against generalities.

"These people, they are Ferraris, Porsches," she says. "They are, all year long, on city streets, stuck in second gear with all the Chevys and Fords. Once a year we get together and let it all hang out. They know that after Sunday, they'll be back on city streets, stuck in second gear."

Seminars are scheduled throughout the day. "Dachengquan Kung Fu." "Pathological Narcissism." "Protecting Your Brain." I am attending one called "Mensa Manners 101," which is being taught by Eldon Romney, the ombudsman for American Mensa.

Blunt, but not untrue. While Mensans as individuals seem to have positions and opinions on just about anything you can imagine, and on several things you can't, the organization as an entity takes no official position on anything whatsoever.

That said, Mensa is an organization, and organizations will flounder if a significant number of its members act like jerks and behave like pigs. So Romney offers some suggestions.

Mind your table manners. Men, lift the seat when you pee. Be wary of making unwelcome sexual contact or advances, especially with people outside Mensa.

Suddenly self-conscious, I stop to buy some mints from the resort's gift shop, where, prominently displayed among the mouse ears and princess attire, is a T-shirt that says: "I'm Surrounded By Idiots."

He says no, the shirt is sold throughout Disney World. But thinking the shirt might appeal to Mensans, he said, he had it moved to the front of the store.

I have yet to see any Mensans wearing the shirt. It lacks subtlety. Most Mensans would prefer to wear T-shirts that illustrate their intelligence, rather than crassly declare it. One of the shirts for sale at the Mensa boutique says: "There are 10 kinds of people in this world: those that get binary, and those that don't."

At the boutique you can buy all kinds of clothes and trinkets stamped with the Mensa logo. All this branding reminds me of a Harley-Davidson riders' convention; indeed, the parallels between a Mensa gathering and a Harley convention are striking: Harley riders parade with their V-Twins between their legs, tailpipes roaring; Mensans parade with their V-Twins between their ears, and they are often just as noisy.

I have been pestering her to let me attend The (In)Famous Date Auction, which is supposed to be closed to the media. She finally agrees, but only for 10 minutes, and only if she escorts me. Also, it would be nice if I were to mention that proceeds from the auction support The Mensa Foundation, which does all kinds of swell things for people.

"It is not," Moore says. "The organization is about making connections with other people. People in the organization are very different, and they are interested in making all kinds of different connections, and not just sex."

Hartwig, who is 50, joined Mensa in her 20s. It used to be a great way to meet men, she says, but most of the people she knows have gotten, as she has, older; Mensans are more like family now.

The auction begins, and Cookie Bakke is the emcee. I notice she has tucked her cell phone into her cleavage. First to be auctioned is a 27-year-old woman, red-haired and gorgeous.

Thursday, and I have now spoken to dozens and dozens of Mensans - Mensans love to talk - and many have told me similar stories: Before Mensa, they felt weird. They felt lonely. They threw up in front of people of the opposite sex. Then they joined Mensa, and there they found others like themselves.

I meet Cat Sterrett, who grew up in Chicago, one of seven kids. Her father was an abusive alcoholic; her mother was repressed and angry. Sterrett grew up believing she was different from everyone else.

I am moved. I think of how crushing her life must have been, how much happier she must be with her adoptive Mensa family, and I confess to Sterrett that I had been operating under the theory that what Mensa is about is sex.

Friday, and I'm joined at breakfast by David Remine, past chairman of American Mensa and past chairman of Mensa International's board of directors.

I tell him my problem: I thought Mensa was all about sex, then grew convinced that it was really all about family, but now I'm back to thinking it is all about sex.

Remine says Mensa isn't all about any one thing in particular. What Mensa is about is as diversified as its members, and its membership is, by design, as diversified as possible.

1. Tommy raided little Joey's piggy bank and came away with the same number each of pennies, nickels and dimes. The total was $4.80. How many coins of each denomination had Joey saved?

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