Boris was a six foot four, well-built, attractive young man wearing a baseball cap. Not at all what we were expecting, but who’s complaining? Dr X had forewarned me that Boris had “a very hot American girlfriend, a sexy babe” and that I shouldn’t “get her angry.” So Boris was off-limits. He did however, have two younger brothers. The following is frighteningly similar to a fairy tale:

One of the most famous singers in Italy in the 1950s/60s was from the island of Capri. Many of his songs are Italian Sinatra-level classics (hell, I even knew them and I’d only been in the country two years.) Due to his successful career, this singer was in a position to buy some serious real estate, and naturally, he snapped up the majority of his motherland i.e. Capri. Considering his fame and the fact that he pretty much owned the entire island, I feel we can think of him as a king. The king then had three sons, the eldest of which (Boris), we were now following. Boris, a relatively low-key guy considering he can be equated with a prince, owned many apartments throughout Capri which he rented out to friends (and friends only) in a Bed and Breakfast type of operation. Making money wasn’t really the point, hence the cheap rates.

He took us to a rather lovely apartment and showed us our room (which could have easily slept three people) and private bath. The kitchen was stocked with breakfast cookies and there was a charming outdoor patio equipped with a grill. Then he introduced us to Gianni who was staying in the larger bedroom across the hall from us. Gianni is an excellent example of what can happen to a person if they’ve been in Capri too long. Gianni was obscenely tan, around forty-five, with overgrown grey hair, stubble, and glazed over eyes. In conversing with him, it was abundantly clear that he was either drunk or stoned or both, and had probably been in such a condition for several weeks. Upon inquiring, we discovered he’d been staying at Boris’ in Capri for over three months. He was topless, wearing a bathing suit (which he had also clearly slept in) and had sunglasses hanging off the side of his head. Gianni was delighted to have some fresh American “bambine” meat in the house and assured us he’d act as our father figure and show us the ropes of the island. If this guy was our chaperone, we were bound to have a good time.

Since it was only noon, Boris suggested Bartok and I join him, Gianni, and others for an afternoon on “the boat.” So we slipped on our suits and joyously skipped behind them to the main piazza. On the taxi ride down the water (note: these are beautiful open-air caravan-like taxis) Bartok and I began to marvel at the landscape and the extremely attractive men and women who inhabited it. Was the salt water here especially good for the skin? Why was everyone glowing? And how was everyone in beach attire still looking hot enough to strut a runway? Our heads turned more than a couple times as we checked out what looked like mermen in Armani strolling the streets, but when we reached the water, both our eyes honed in on a long-haired Brad Pitt look-alike motoring a small white boat in our direction. Our jaws dropped and we spit out at the same time:

“Who is HE?”

“I’d like a piece of that man to go,” Bartok added as if ordering a Happy Meal.

We’d find out who he was soon enough because his boat was apparently also our boat. Boris and company were shuffling us down the dock towards him (rudely interrupting my fantasy about he and I rolling around naked in some sand). Somewhere along the way, Boris’ infamous girlfriend had joined us. She was from Vegas and outrageously hot in that “I’m made of plastic” kind of way. She teetered on stilettos, pouting under her oversize sunglasses while carrying one of those ridiculous toy sized dogs that you can fit into a fanny pack.

Soon we were out to sea drinking Havana on the rocks, sprawled out on the boat, rocking gently from side to side. It would have been really relaxing had we both not been smiling so hard and calling dibs on who got to marry Brad. Well, in true fairytale style, our Brad turned out to be Boris’ younger brother, prince number three in the Capri dynasty. The middle son we were informed had last week “gotten sick” of Capri so took his boat and entourage to Panorea. While Brad was blonde and Boris dark, they had the exact same perfectly chiseled features. How Lady Vegas had snagged Boris still remains a mystery. They were in year three of their relationship. She had moved to Capri and (talk about creativity) was running a Bed and Breakfast of her own.

We swam like mermaids, got exceedingly drunk, and ooh-ed and aaaw-ed as the boys navigated the boat through those picturesque coral arches that dotted the ocean. Everyone was also getting…well, stoned. See, the joint is to Capri day-to-day life what electricity or running water is to normal people’s existence. Folks lit up at 10 am and carried on through till the wee hours – no questions asked. I was feeling especially glamorous since Brad had decided to take a break from pretending to steer the boat and lain down beside me. He took out my left ipod earpiece and stuck it in his own beautiful ear before grunting/requesting that I put on some Vasco Rossi (which, thank Jesus, I had).

We stumbled back to shore as content as small children after a day at an amusement park. Little did we know that the real fun was yet to come. Capri’s nightlife loomed ahead. Not only would we meet a REAL prince, but I would meet a man who I’ll refer to in code as LC, the man to whom number 11 in my “What’s coming preview section” (11. Your boyfriend has an alternate identity – a support manual) is dedicated to.

To Be Continued…