Unbeknownst to us, our B&B apartment with Gianni had another bedroom, a suite on the opposite side of the patio. About four days into our vacation, an attractive, glitzy Neapolitan couple moved into this area for the weekend.

They were CRAZY.

There’s a reason I’m using all caps. They had the loudest, most outrageous sex with the door to their suite (a sliding door which opened onto the shared patio) OPEN and the curtains flung to the side. While it was fun the first time around to see which groans and shrill shrieks of lust matched which sexual positions, when this became a regular occurrence it was borderline inappropriate, even for us. This couple partied like rock stars on crack, making even our wild evenings look tame. During the day, they lounged around the apartment patio barely clothed, with no clothes, or with tiny white towels barely covering their outstretched tan Mediterranean bodies. I have nothing against psychotic couples with especially raunchy sex lives. In fact, power to them. The more pressing problem was that they strolled into OUR room unannounced, without knocking, at any time of the day or night. Once when I was sleeping in bed alone at five a.m. (I’d had an early night) they both scampered on top of me asking
a. if I had a lighter and
b. if I’d like to smoke up with them

The fact that they didn’t know me and I was naked, asleep in MY room at five in the morning was apparently irrelevant. I mean, when two total drunken strangers come into your room with these kinds of requests how do you even begin to respond? What do you say? These people just had no boundaries whatsoever. It’s amazing I survived the weekend with out being forced into some sort of kinky sexual encounter with the two of them (which I was sure would happen if I took them up on any of their “kind” offers to share the wine.)

Luckily, Bartok and I were able to escape during the day onto the oasis that was Prince M’s boat. Everyone was well, drunk and stoned; we had anchored for a swim and were now eating/playing with some delicious grapes someone had been smart enough to put in a cooler. I had created grape earrings; Bartok was busy trying to catch them in her mouth. Various Italians were sunning up with baby oil, and Prince M was too stoned scurry around and take pictures. It was an extremely hot day, and it was around hour three of snoozing, tanning, rolling over, and napping that I turned to Bartok and asked her why we’d been in this particular location all afternoon instead of motoring around. It was only when I sat up that I noticed some of Prince M’s goonies fiddling with the engine, their faces twisted in concern.

The empty ocean surrounded us for miles, and our boat was broken. Fortunately, everyone was too high to care. I crawled toward my cell phone – yep – no service. We couldn’t even phone our parents to tell them that we were dying in best way possible. Prince M announced that he “thought” help was on the way. Thought?

Two more hours passed. Panicking would have taken too much energy so we continued to swim and sleep like babies in a crib. Yet there was a fog of tension in the air. What would become of us?

Eventually the fattest, tannest man I’ve ever seen with three chins and tattoos pulled up along side us in a rusty metal boat. He looked like a ghetto, fisherman from Jersey, yet here he was in Capri, our “hero.” He mounted, repeat MOUNTED our motor like it was a plaything he enjoyed having between his legs and starting jamming all sorts metal tools down its throttle in a violent, quasi-rapist-like manner. I wasn’t sure whether to cry or laugh out loud. The amazing part of this story is that after an hour of having this Neanderthal-type man violate our boat, the motor started. He heaved himself back into his metal dingy and sped away. Who he was, how he got to us, how he fixed the motor or how he was compensated, all remain unanswered questions. Our dazed crew returned to shore, some unaware that any of this delightful drama had taken place.

We were back on shore before sunset.

Much like a small child at Disney World who has a mind-wrecking temper tantrum randomly for no reason, I had a breakdown in Capri. Maybe it was because I had just been too happy for too long. Maybe it was because I was averaging four and a half hours of sleep a night. Maybe it was because the Neapolitans naughty sex life was reminding me of my lack thereof. Maybe it was because Prince M and Bartok were officially getting it on and I felt unloved (although Brad did make out with me at Number 2, a slight victory since I knew Bartok had wanted him more.) Whatever it was, I cried for about eight hours straight. No joke. It’s the longest I’ve ever consistently cried in my whole life. My eyes became the size of walnuts. All consolation from Bartok and Prince M’s entourage was worthless. Not even Gianni’s giant jellyfish imitation could make me break a smile. I had it bad. And when everyone asked what was wrong, I had nothing to say so blew mucus in their face, which usually made them go away.

Despite my clinical condition, Bartok dragged me out for the night since she was afraid I’d attempt to drown myself in the bathtub if left alone in our room. We were having dinner at the villa of a friend of Prince M’s, a place in the hills we didn’t know how to get to. The plan was to meet Prince M and his posse in the main piazza and all walk there together. We were waiting by the piazza’s large steps dolled to the nines (me with extremely puffy eyes) waiting, since Prince M was (surprise surprise) late. Bartok enjoyed a cigarette and attempted to give me therapy while I stared blankly out at the ocean like a dead fish. She soon gave up attempting to cheer me (I don’t blame her), and struck up a conversation with some boys. It was then that a male voice asked me:

“Why are you crying?”

I turned around ready to unleash my mucus trick when I:

a. Just realized I’d been addressed in English (something that wasn’t happening very often) and
b. That the man talking to me was clean shaven and exquisitely dressed with icy blue eyes and a briefcase in his left hand.

BACK UP. A briefcase? Who was working on the island of Capri? I was intrigued, so responded:

“How do you know I’m American?”

“You shouldn’t be sad,” he said. “You’re in one of the most beautiful places in the world.”

Yeah, thanks. People had already tried that line.

“Maybe I can help you,” he continued. “I have a business dinner now, but after that I’m free.”

Me: “You’re like a therapist?”

Him: “I’m a Life Coach.”

I cocked my head and some tears streamed out.

“I work with professional athletes, corporations, wealthy individuals. That’s why I’m in Capri.”

I informed him that people didn’t work on Capri. He responded that his client was based here, and that he was always working. ALWAYS.

Around this time Prince M showed up. I quickly introduced Bartok to Life Coach and informed him that I had to go to dinner in the hills. He told me to take his number. Since he was the only stimulating thing that had happened to me in the past seven hours, I did.

“Call me when you’re done with dinner,” he said. “I’m staying right near here.”

“Where?”

“At the nicest hotel in Capri. The Quissina,” he smiled.

OK. Who was this shmuck? And would anyone really care if I hit him for sport?

“I thought La Palma was the nicest hotel in Capri,” I replied (which, to my knowledge was true.)

He just smiled and waved at me as I became engulfed in Prince M’s posse which moved like a heard of animals up into the hills. Even with my blurry tear-vision, I could see he had the most pleasant, simple, unassuming smile. For the first time that evening, I experienced some sort of clarity. Something snapped into focus. And after sobbing my way through a six course dinner, at around twelve thirty a.m., I called him.

To Be Continued…