Sometimes you can’t afford to discriminate, and when a vomit-green FIAT Panda pulls over on the kerbside and unloads a ladder to give you a ride, you are very grateful to have met the vomit-green-fiat-panda-driver-whose-name-I-can’t-recall, a kind and eccentric Greek-American lady in her thirties listening to fusion eastern European music (think mix between Goran Bregovic, Manu Chao, and traditional Greek sirtaki) playing on the local RadioActive radio station. We indicated we could hitchhike in two groups, but she insisted we would all fit, and that proved true without the ladder left on the side of the road, and the rest of her crap she had quickly dumped in the trunk. Fluent in English we had an easy thought-provoking conversation, learnt that she was on her way to post a letter before returning to take her shift as a waitress in Faros (the coastal village we had been walking from instead of waiting for the infrequent dominical bus service), she seemed delighted we had been harvesting wild capers on the way (now that we could easily recognise caper bushes, cf. Caper harvest in Folegandros) and gave us her blessings as she dropped us in Emporio, the island’s capital town, though commending a stop in Kastro (a village perched up a rocky hill we had to turn our back from the previous day due to the narrowness and poor protection of the anchorage) on our way back.

There, we refuelled on souvlaki pita wraps (we were too early for the proper gyros which was just about to be set in motion and bound to be ready around 4pm, as puzzling as it might seem regarding people’s food schedule) before having a stroll in the historical centre, including an art gallery which obviously knew my favourite colour (turquoise) and had prepared for it before our visit. Once again the boys modelled for me amongst the white-washed buildings and movie-set-like picturesque restaurant terraces ornamented with large mirrors we had fun playing with.

We also tasted local delicacies at the fine goods grocer and café and, by mid-afternoon realised, having been kept awake most of the night by a wedding party, we were too tired to consider a detour via Kastro, hence deciding to walk back with our thumbs up high to regain Chrisopigi bay, where our floating home was waiting for us. This time we made it in two groups, Dad and the kids hopped in Jacquie & Daphnee’s car, while Thomas and I carried on walking until we got a ride too, but were left a kilometre or so before our destination, allowing Daphnee to come back for us as she had spotted us from the beach.

Dad was very pleased with the chance encounter with these two very friendly young women with whom he could practice his English. Daphnee, Greek, and Jacquie, American had met at a Business School in New York years ago, and Jacquie was now paying a visit to her friend, with whom she was on a foodie tour of Sifnos, renowned for its fine dining opportunities. They came swimming to visit Obelix but refused a drink as they had already had their share at a wine tasting for lunch and were due for a dinner at the Pullman supper club the same night. We also learnt that they had crashed into the Greek-French wedding we hadn’t dared to disturb the day before, only taking a few sunset pics at the prized monastery before the ceremony began. They whole-heartedly suggested we asked, next time we found ourselves near a chapel on a Saturday night, when the wedding was celebrated, to attend it (unfortunately we forgot, or didn’t have the guts to on the rest of our trip).

Daphnee, who was also a keen sailor and knew Athens sailing grounds well, recommended us a few spots, including the off-the-radar island of Kea (apparently pronounced Tsia), which wasn’t initially on our itinerary, and where antique ruins were discovered a few years ago and she vouched was the real sh***, winning hands down, according to her, against the well-known temple of Poseidon near Athens, or even Delphi’s antique site. We exchanged numbers and off they went to their gastronomic dinner, while we had an early night to set sail the next morning to Serifos, leaving behind the mini marina of Platis Gialos (pronounced Yalos) where we had our first and only (?) real shower of all of dad’s trip, and Chrisopigi bay, that, despite a noisy Saturday evening, we enjoyed thoroughly.