Departure takes place on a Friday afternoon by yacht, helicopter or chartered private airplane. The rich man is conveyed to his residence by a convoy of jeeps ferrying the guests, children, women and foreign governesses. The Mongol hordes have not yet invaded the island, so there is time for a descent on Myconos town. After doing the shopping (Myconos has a greater concentration of boutiques per square meter than Kolonaki), the group ends up at some taverna of good repute, where the fava and Myconian soft cheese have been turned into fine art. With bulging stomachs, the party then wend their way to a bar where they sway they hips for a full five minutes, so that they can describe these heights of merriment to other Croesuses on the morrow. Saturday is spent within four walls, with a perpetual gastronomic orgy, from which their slim wives abstain in order to speak of private schools, nannies and anti-wrinkle creams. Their husbands talk of their own affairs, which include infantile sociological analyses and political predictions that are invariably refuted, but chiefly focus on business. But at night, they all go to dine at another villa. On the way, they look through the window at drivers looking for parking spaces and pity the masses, who have not yet realized what their sufferings will be. On Sunday, they take a last dip in the swimming pool, pack and make a swift getaway, debating, on the way to Athens, whether to sell the house, now that «Myconos has filled with low-class people…» The next weekend, it’s the same story.