The Happiest Place on Earth: Part IV

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…

The Happiest Place on Earth: Part III

After a long day on the boat, Bartok and I usually spent the early evenings napping, watching Sex and the City season 6 on my laptop, and evading Gianni (who tended to conveniently burst into our room when he heard bath water running and one of us happened to be naked). Once we felt clean and rested, we’d begin drinking in bed, usually splitting a bottle of wine. Then we’d get ready to go out in an operation called “try on everything each of us owns at least twice.” I loathed many of my cute outfits since they’d lost their novelty. But after seeing my clothes modeled by Bartok, they’d grow on me, and I’d want them back. Hence, even once we felt satisfied with what we were wearing, a heated negotiation would ensue about who could borrow what. Make-up, shoes and accessories were dealt with in a similar manner.

Our first night out on the town with our ever responsible chaperone Gianni we were introduced to a group of Capri natives which included Prince M and Nefertiti. Prince M, not to be confused with the prince-like sons of the singing king of Capri, was an actual French-Neapolitan Prince with five last names, official lineage and his family’s royal coat of arms frescoed above his Capri villa’s fireplace. Since it had been a life long ambition of Bartok and mine to become princesses, Prince M appealed to both of us - A LOT. It helped that he had a great tan, shaggy brown hair, sexy sunglasses and a smile that made you want to melt. He also spoke perfect American English since he had spent many years in California surfing. Our obstacle was the unusual woman Prince M had in toe. Bartok and I immediately referred to her as Nefertiti since her real name was unpronounceable and (for those of you who’ve studied art history) this girl looked exactly like Queen Nefertiti of ancient Egypt. For those of you interested in a visual or the history (which is quite fascinating) you can follow the link here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nefertiti

Since Bartok and I both craved Prince M’s undivided attention, we realized it would be best to first team up and find out what the deal was with this caramel, exotic, model-esque beauty Prince M had following him around (and apparently staying with him). It’s quite impressive to be lanky and six foot two with a shaved head and still look like a sex bomb (which Nefertiti did.) She’d have to be eliminated.

We went to an impressive bar/trattoria where the famous singer from Capri was casually bellowing out tunes for some “old friends.” This chubby sixty-year-old bore no resemblance to his two sons who we’d spent the afternoon drooling over, but at least we’d heard the famous man sing a classic. Another upside of the evening was that Bartok and I had skillfully engineered who was where along the bar and had Nefertiti trapped in a corner with Gianni, allowing Prince M to focus his attention on us. Several rounds of drinks were purchased.

Some women have opposite tastes in men and therefore rarely find themselves competing for the same male’s attention. For Bartok and I, this was NOT the case. What we find attractive in the opposite sex is actually frighteningly similar, so we are often in the situation of fighting tooth and nail for the same guy. The good news is that Bartok and I, while sharing similar personality traits, consider ourselves equally attractive but in entirely different ways. We look nothing alike. In fact, we have opposite hair, eye and skin color. We get quite competitive over men in a good-hearted way, yet once a man chooses between us we let it go, never taking the man’s decision personally but rather attributing his selection to his personal preference for chocolate or vanilla. Halfway through the night, I was ready for Prince M and I to start picking out names for our boats and children and deciding on a new color scheme for his royal living room. Bartok still preferred Brad. Nefertiti’s lack of English (or Italian for that matter) meant she was continually sinking into the shadows as we hopped from bar to bar, stopping in one picturesque Caprese ally to (surprise surprise) smoke a joint. Prince M was perhaps master of the “canne.” When we’d attend his friend’s thirtieth birthday party later in the week, we’d see that Prince M had not only had a cake made for his buddy, but had topped it with thirty joints as opposed to candles. That gave the birthday boy a smile.

Somewhere around bar number three, Bartok got drunk enough to point blank ask Nefertiti is she and Prince M were an item. Nefertiti’s answer was negative. A day and half later Nefertiti returned back to Naples. Victory.

The nights that followed went something like this: After our power nap and complex dressing ritual we’d head to Prince M’s for dinner at around 11 pm. Dinner in Capri never occurred before 11 – period. Prince M’s family owned a large complex of intertwined villas a pleasant fifteen-minute walk from the center of town. Prince M, being their one and only child, was entrepreneurially renting the majority of this space and living in only one section of the villa with his entourage which included his friends from South America who worked the grill cooking delicious meat and various other friends from Naples in the “music business” who played on Prince M’s professional DJ system 24 hours a day. Food was eaten outside on Prince M’s outstandingly large balcony where he’d set up half a dozen mattresses and low Japanese tables so we could all eat reclining like Roman emperors and empresses, occasionally leaning back to soak in the stars. Blankets and booze were also provided, as was abundant amounts of weed. Prince M scampered around the house supervising the cooking, spinning his favorite trance songs on the DJ table or indulging in his favorite hobby – photography. On his boat and at his house, Prince M was constantly snapping pictures with a Nikon camera that looked like it was worth more than my Milan apartment. In the evening, slide shows of his photographic work would be displayed on a large Apple computer near the DJ booth.

After eating and lounging in our outdoor beds, seeing some shooting stars, and drinking ourselves into a stupor, we’d head out to Capri’s town center at around 3 am. Leave your villa to go clubbing before 3 am and you were labeled a loser. Capri, being a rather tiny island, had only two discotecas – both of which were indoors and insanely small. One had a rather upscale name (which I can’t remember), something like Cabana or Executive. The other, and the place we always ended up, was called Number 2. I shit you not (no pun intended).

Bartok and I spent many evenings questioning our Caprese friends about why the most famous and lovely club on the island had such a disgusting name (after three bottles of wine and heavily spiked vodka cocktails, saying “Number 2” made Bartok and I both crumble to the ground laughing). We explained that in English Number 2 meant excrement. Prince M didn’t find it that funny and all the other Italians just looked at us quizzically before returning to their drinks. Again, since the island was so small, no matter who went out with who, inevitably everyone (Gianni, Boris, Vegas, Prince M, Brad) ended up wasting at least two hours in Number 2. At 6 am the club would wind down and everyone would migrate to the main piazza to watch the sun rise while enjoying a brioche and cappuccino at an outdoor cafe. One morning, we were lucky enough to watch dawn break at Brad’s house (i.e. the famous Caprese singer’s mansion. Brad, despite looking thirty and good enough to eat, was actually only a nineteen-year-old college student living with his parents for the summer.) His family’s villa was at one of the highest points of the island (we needed a caravan taxi to get there) and to this day remains the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen: Three stories of a chic, modern, yet innately Italian décor, tons of windows, acres of gardens, an infinity pool and five balconies. At around 7 or 8 am everyone would stumble home, sleep till 11, and be back on the boat at twelve noon to repeat it all from the top. We were beginning to understand why Gianni had been here three months and had no intentions of leaving.

Coming up:
The arrival of some unexpected guests…
A boating “accident”…
Prince M chooses his princess…
And the crisis-situation in which I met Mr. LC…

To Be Continued…

The Happiest Place on Earth: Part II

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…