My confusion started as soon as the ferry docked. I knew there was a film crew waiting for us to disembark; I also knew I wasn’t supposed to look at the camera. But trying not to look at something can be very awkward. As I stepped on to the gangplank, laden with luggage, I gazed at the sky, the dock, the brown hills of Panarea, an island in the Aeolian Sea, north of Sicily.

I wanted to appear like a normal vacationer seeing a delightful place for the first time. Instead, I looked like a drunken, myopic porter.

But who was I kidding, anyway? I was not a normal vacationer, and this was not a normal vacation. My girlfriend, Dorian, and I had been invited to take part in “Your Private Island,” which runs on the Fine Living Network. (Fine it is, I’m sure, though I had never heard of it before.) Each episode takes a couple to a remote island, where they’re filmed having more fun than most viewers will ever be able to afford.

Once we were on the pier, someone yelled, “Cut!” and a petite, 40ish woman parted the crowd of Italian tourists. This was Sherie, the producer. She put us in the back of a golf cart, and a burly American guy appeared and began fondling my girlfriend. He claimed to be the soundman and said he was merely attaching a microphone; still, I kept my eye on him as he fumbled at Dorian’s T-shirt. Usually, that’s my job.

Up the hill we went, followed by the crew in another cart.

“Look happy,” Sherie shouted.

I smiled at Dorian, who was wearing a very convincing expression of happiness. After all, she was back in Italy, her favorite place to visit, and someone else was footing the bill. And besides, “Your Private Island” is reality television of a relatively innocuous sort. There would be no platters of insects or plastic surgery (although I could do with some lipo), and there was no competition involved. But I quickly learned that there’s more to making a show than just the catering van.

Our check-in to the Hotel Raya, for example, was shot three times, and the walk to our room – up a steep slope, then a number of steeper staircases – was shot five times. We were supposed to sustain our energy and enthusiasm for every take, even though we had been up since 5 a.m. and had taken a four-hour ferry ride.

Then Sherie was merciful. After shooting our reaction to the hotel room (unfeigned excitement at seeing its spaciousness, feigned excitement at seeing the mosquito netting), we had an hour to rest. While Dorian took a shower, I took the opportunity to orient myself. This was accomplished by finding the mini-bar and then settling into a chaise lounge on the terrace.

The view was stunning. To my left was a brown, craggy peak, fringed by bright green brush and clusters of cacti. Below was the village, an attractive jumble of white, cube-like buildings. The sea was a pellucid blue-green; in the distance, the huge funnel of Stromboli, an active volcano, was surrounded by swirls of white and gray clouds. Dead ahead lay the uninhabited islands: Dattilo, a blunt cone with vertical streaks of white, and Basiluzzo, a long, rocky slope.

I fell in love with Dattilo. In the mornings, its crags were suffused with yellow; in the afternoon, the whole rock was bright white; at sunset, it took on a lavender tinge. Seeing these rocks was worth any amount of hassle. But for the next four days, taking a moment to gaze at them was the only time I was truly relaxed.

In one day alone, we took a boat trip, a helicopter ride, and a three-hour hike. Mealtimes were no respite, as we were filmed at breakfast, lunch, and dinner – even the cocktail hour was filmed. When Sherie called the day’s shooting over Dorian and I just collapsed into bed, where we had to contend with that mosquito netting.

I did want to help put together a good show. When we went out to Stromboli to see the Street of Fire, an enormous slope of volcanic ash, I had to repeat “Holy smokes! Look at that!” three or four times, and I strained to keep the initial spontaneity in my voice. Later that day I went for a dip in the Aeolian Sea, which was absolutely frigid – my playful smile for the camera can also be seen as a rictus of pain. When Dorian and I walked on the beach, holding hands, I smiled again while thousands of extraordinarily sharp little rocks sliced up my feet.

There were some consolations. The food was outrageously good. At the Hotel Raya, the fruit was fresh and tasty, and the yogurt was just as thick, and almost as rich, as clotted cream. At Da Pina, a local trattoria, we were taken by the tuna carpaccio and the linguini with garlic and squid ink.

I also liked the small taste of celebrity. A quartet of drunken Brits shouted slurred questions at us as we passed in our golf carts. At the hotel, they pointed and waved when we entered the bar, one young woman with so much enthusiasm that she fell out of her chair. We received impeccable service at every shop and restaurant. (The tobacconist asked for my autograph, which I signed “Don Knotts.”)

We even had our own version of a stalker, a Swiss-German photographer who, I think, hoped to get some free publicity via our show. He was already snapping pictures when we checked into the hotel; during our hike, he leaned out from behind a tree, startling us as we smooched out of sight of the crew. He outdid himself by appearing, covered in dust and sweat, at the helipad, which was 20 minutes by golf cart from the hotel.

Perhaps the most memorable moment was when Dorian and I stole away for a break. We strolled alongside the low, whitewashed walls, holding hands. An old woman called us over. She had capers, a Panarean specialty, for sale. We went into her house, where she produced a big bag of them, which we never could have got through customs. Dorian relayed this to the old woman, who showed us instead a bag of marijuana, which we also respectfully declined.

But the most interesting aspect of the trip came later, when we finally saw our episode. Frankly, I was amazed at how well we came off. It’s not hard to make Dorian look good, but they must have sifted through miles of tape to do the same for me. All those moments when I grumbled, or whined, or said something downright inane: how easy it would have been for them to make me look like an idiot. And how easy it must be, on those reality shows that must have a villain, to create one.

Strangely, quite a few people who saw the show congratulated us on our engagement. This was news to us. But there is the sequence that shows us hiking up to view a hidden cove, while the narrator announces that we’re “taking our relationship to new heights.” The next shot is from my interview, when I profess my love for Dorian; then she, in a separate interview, does the same for me (thank God). And six months later, my dad was mad at me for learning about my engagement “from the TV.”

As for my experience of reality TV, I am glad I did it. The less pleasant memories are fading; now, I mostly remember the food, the clear ocean, the joy of hearing my girlfriend speak Italian. We also have a tape that shows us as two young, attractive, and happy lovers in a beautiful place. Maybe it wasn’t as much fun as they made it out to be. But there were many times when it came pretty close.

If You Go to Panarea

GETTING THERE

Panarea is five hours by ferry from Naples. Tickets start at about $95, one way. Go to www.snav.it for schedules and specific fares. It’s a shorter and cheaper ride if you leave from the Sicilian port of Milazzo: tickets are about $15, one way. Check www.siremar.it for schedules and fares.

WHERE TO STAY

Set into a craggy hillside above the Via S. Pietro, the Hotel Raya is the most beautiful in Panarea. It’s also the most expensive, but prices are seasonal. In March, a room for two ranges from about $250 to $390 a night; in August, from about $390 to $625. Go to www.hotelraya.it or call 011-39-090-983-013 for more information.

WHERE TO EAT

Raya’s restaurant boasts a terrace with fantastic views and a fully organic menu. Breakfast is highly recommended and included in the price of the room; dinner for two will cost about $130.

Da Pina, on Via Lani, is arguably the best restaurant on the island. Dinner for two will cost about $100.It’s very popular, so be sure to make reservations: call 011-39-090-983-032.

Ristorante Da Antonio “Il Macellaio” (“the Butcher”), at 20 Via S. Pietro, specializes in grilled food. The proprietor trained in Argentina, so be sure to try the steak. Dinner at Da Antonio will also cost about $100. 011-39-090-983033