Moscha
I should have known that when my host reached out a few days prior to arriving to ask if we would like her to arrange a car for us from the port to the Airbnb that this was going to be a great stay. She had reserved Taxi #10 (which we came to learn there are only 10 taxis on the island and her cousin Apostoli was one of them). Last minute we decided to rent a car, which I then gave back in less than 24 hours. That is a story for a different day, but it did afford me the opportunity to eventually meet Apostoli and taxi driver #8 whose name was also Apostoli who I sat shotgun with….again part of my rent-a-car story. Apostoli #8 indulged me in practicing my Greek and when I got stuck, he practiced his English. During my travels, when I tell people, ‘I speak a little. I understand a little. I’m learning’, ‘Μιλάω λίγο. Καταλαβαίνω λίγα. Μαθαίνω’ (pronounced Miláo lígo. Katalavaíno líga. Mathaíno), that is always appreciated. Moreover, I appreciate the ones who help me learn a little more. More on taxi drivers in that blog post.
Maria, my host informs me she won’t be at the Airbnb when I arrive, but her mother will be. And in all honesty, it is her mother, Moscha who ran the show. The apartment keys had an engraved wooden keychain that said Moscha Geronti Studios & Apartments. It was clear that Maria was just the conduit for putting her family’s properties on Airbnb. I also came to learn that the two homes on either side of Moscha’s home were her sisters’ and their families. The sisters lived on one level on the hill and the rentals sat right above them for all three families. It was a community within a community, and I could feel it before I ever really got into conversation with Moscha.
We were greeted by Moscha’s warm smile, very broken English and homemade cookies and lemonade made from the lemons on the lemon tree between her house and the apartment we were in. Delicious- the lemonade, not the cookies. The cookies had nuts and I’m allergic. Not sure why Constantine didn’t eat them. After the first day of exploring, we came back and the room was tidy, bed was fixed and there was water and fresh lemonade in the refrigerator and a bowl of spoon fruit. I wasn’t even sure what kind, but I ate it and it was so delicious. We didn’t know that there would be housekeeping included and at first it made me uneasy; but then I realized it was probably Moscha herself.
After the first day, Constantine and the rental car left me. We had made quite a name of ourselves in so little time. Little did I know, the island's grapevine operated on turbo speed. Moscha, Anthi (stay tuned for her in the next story), and both Apostolis had not only caught wind of Constantine's brief cameo but had also unearthed my solo escapade plans. In what can only be described as a village-life telepathy. I imagined they managed to form a little fan club dedicated to unraveling the mysteries of Constantine’s and my travels. Picture this: a covert meeting at the local taverna, conspiratorial whispers over cups of strong Greek coffee! They had me pegged. The hilarity of it all—less than 48 hours on the island, and my dramatic tales were already the talk of the town. There's something oddly charming about life in a village, χωριό (pronounced chorió). It's like the village has its own version of Google Alerts, but instead of algorithms, they rely on yiayias with a knack for storytelling. Oh, the joys of a small community where news travels fast.
One day, Moscha noted that we didn’t eat the cookies and that we didn’t have anything in the apartment for breakfast. I told her I would probably grab a few things at the mini market because I would be working more now that Constantine had left. I told her it was very kind she left the cookies and the spoon sweets and of course the lemonade- my personal favorite. I told her about my allergy as to not be offended. She then asked what I like to get for breakfast and I told her either spanakopita, leek pie or greek bagel, κουλούρι (pronounced kouloúri). That day, when I came back there was dish covered on the table. I opened it up and it was a homemade apple bougatsa of sorts. Μπουγάτσα (pronounced buˈgatsa) is a Greek breakfast pastry consisting of semolina custard. This one had no cream and no nuts. It was like the filling of apple pie with raisins, flax seeds pumpkin seeds and honey. So yummy!. It was as if she had a sixth sense and new if I were to make a bougatsa, how I would make it. The next day the napkin-covered dish had two pieces of spanakopita. I couldn’t believe it; but I could. A gesture that left me both astonished and deeply touched. I don’t eat the phyllo at home but I eat the soft, hand-rolled phyllo in Greece (it’s a texture thing). When I complemented her, in true Greek woman fashion she insisted it wasn’t her best. Yet, in every bite, I could taste the love and care she poured into each dish. Cleaning my place and preparing these goodies required time and effort, and Moscha's warmth and kindness illuminated every corner of my temporary home. She didn’t have to clean my place, cook and leave goodies for me along the way. Trust me, I know how much time that takes. The spanakopita bake times and temperatures are no joke in and of themselves. It was the warmth and kindness in Moscha that really touched me.
Almost every morning and early evening, our paths would cross, and it was during one particular evening that we truly connected over the energy we shared. Our conversations unfolded in a delightful blend of Greek-lish, a unique language born from our efforts to understand each other. It felt extraordinary, as if we effortlessly grasped each other's emotions and energies. We were on the same wavelength from the time the conversation started. It wasn't about perfect language; it was about the feeling.
Almost every morning and early evening, our paths would cross, and it was during one particular evening that we truly connected over the energy we shared. Our conversations unfolded in a delightful blend of Greek-lish, a unique language born from our efforts to understand each other. It felt extraordinary, as if we effortlessly grasped each other's emotions and energies. It wasn't about perfect language; it was about the feeling.
Sifnos, in its entirety, was a feeling—an enchanting warmth of Moscha's gestures and the shared understanding that transcended words. In those moments, language became a beautiful vehicle for the heart's expression. And it wasn’t just me, Constantine also felt that spark there more than anywhere else he has been on his travels.
Below are some of the highlights of staying with Moscha and exploring Sifnos.
