“You can’t miss the Martinos Antique and fine art gallery – it’s a story in itself,” says collector and journalist Dimitris Xanthoulis as we discuss athenian antique shops and Monastiraki’s bustling Sunday flea market, and make plans to visit the bustling bazaar that springs to life in AvYssinias square and its immediate surroundings every Sunday morning.

Martinos Antique and Fine Art Gallery, a landmark which, since 1894, has been entwined with Athens’ urban transformation, is unquestionably the perfect place to start this journey through time. However, it’s not that close to Avyssinias Square and, moreover, it’s closed on Sundays. “We’ll need two days,” Xanthoulis declares, and so we arrange to meet first on Saturday morning at 50 Pandrossou Street.

Standing before the elegant three-story pre-war building that has housed the shop since 1926, we take in the striking facades designed by Takis Zenetos, one of Greece’s most celebrated postwar modernist architects. What I see through the shop window reminds me of a cabinet de curiosités: intricately adorned chests stacked with precision, 18th-century English silverware, traditional Skyrian chairs, and lithographs depicting Greek themes. There are also exquisite necklaces and belts from Macedonian and Attic costumes, and embroideries from the Cyclades and Epirus. Nineteenth-century silver pistols are elegantly displayed in built-in showcases; Oriental rugs and Italian modernist chandeliers add to the eclectic, timeless charm of this treasure trove of art and history.

Wherever we look, we’re greeted by different eras. Every object here serves as a reminder that slow living is not a modern concept – it’s a way of life we’ve merely rediscovered, reviving old habits and forgotten crafts. Each piece in this shop, sourced from diverse countries, periods and traditions, shares a common thread: the meticulous care and passion with which people once tended to even the simplest aspects of daily life.

As I ask questions about antique silver buttons and opaline vases, my companion’s attention is caught by an 18th-century Italian water jug and a low, square table with a ceramic top by Eleni Vernardaki, Greece’s most important contemporary ceramicist. “These days, I’m only interested in post-war Athenian ceramics and the works of Ira Triantafyllidi,” he says, even as he picks up the jug.

I ask Xanthoulis if he’s ever tempted to acquire something outside the scope of his collection, such as the item he’s holding.

“All the time! A collector’s always tempted, especially in a shop like this, where you’re surrounded by passion and expertise,” he says with a grin. “But you have to be careful – space and money are always in short supply.”

We step outside and begin walking down the street, and I ask him how he first got into collecting.

“Honestly, I can’t remember anymore. I’ve always had a love for objects,” he says. “At first, I’d buy anything that caught my eye – glassware, tableware, silver, even some furniture. But over time, I’ve honed my focus to very specific items.”

And what about mistakes? How does one avoid them? “You can’t,” Xanthoulis says, smiling. “All collectors make mistakes. You wind up really regretting some of your purchases, but the next week you’re back at it, crouched over stalls, looking for more.”

We arrange our next meeting for eight o’clock the following morning in Avyssinias Square. I get the sense he’s eager to part ways for now, offering a polite excuse about not wanting to “ruin” my Saturday. The next morning, that suspicion is confirmed; collectors, it seems, treasure the solitude of their pursuit.

On the prowl

I arrive at the square earlier than expected. From a distance, I spot Xanthoulis – already there, scanning the scene. He tells me he’s been here since dawn. For him, the Monastiraki flea market is a sacred Sunday ritual, one he never misses when in Athens.

“I start on foot from my home in Syntagma and make my way to Monastiraki via Mitropoleos Street,” he says. “Along the way, I run into other collectors. We exchange greetings, share news, and often arrive here before the sellers even set out their wares. Then, each of us goes our separate way.”

I glance around, feeling both captivated and overwhelmed. Everything here looks extraordinary, yet utterly ordinary. How does one navigate this maze of objects? Xanthoulis, however, seems completely at ease. He thrives in the energy of the market – the voices, the sights, the playful banter. Goethe once said that collectors are happiest when they’re in their element; here, that sentiment is palpable.

It quickly becomes clear that this place holds everything: banknotes from the Occupation; tin toy trains from the ’50s; silverware; Danish dining chairs; wristwatches; gramophones; Viennese porcelain; woven rugs; ICARO ceramics; embroidery; a white leather armchair by Joe Colombo; 18th-century carved wooden mirrors; Rafaella Carrà records; and reproductions of Alekos Fassianos paintings.

How do you know if something is truly valuable?

“You don’t know at first,” my companion says, moving swiftly from one vendor to the next. “Your eye gets better over time. Things I walked past for years without noticing – I can spot them now.”

He slips into the narrow alleys, and I almost lose sight of him entirely – until the vendors, spotting him, begin calling his name, eager to show him something they think might catch his eye.

“What is Monastiraki, really?” I ask. “Hidden treasures buried in the mud, or just the forgettable wares of modern-day hawkers?”

“Monastiraki is Athens’ back door – the gateway to another world,” he says, stopping at a stall. He asks about the price of a small ceramic vase, one with an image of Mickey Mouse holding a Greek flag.

The bargaining begins. “Haggling is part of the ritual,” he says. “The vendors thrive on it; it’s what they look forward to.”

I wonder aloud how often he feels genuinely thrilled by a purchase.

“Not very often anymore,” he admits. “Sometimes, when nothing really catches my eye, I’ll bargain for something trivial – just a random trinket – to satisfy the itch to buy something. Then I keep wandering aimlessly. It’s like a bug, an obsession.”

What advice would he give to a visitor or a beginner collector?

“First, figure out what interests you,” he says. “Take your time exploring Monastiraki, and always haggle. Make your offer and hold firm. But most importantly, understand where you are. You won’t find ancient pieces here – the oldest items date back to the late 18th century.”

He explains that fine objects from grand homes in cities like Athens or Thessaloniki were scarce in past centuries. Wealthy families were few, and when money did exist, it was typically spent on more practical concerns. “They needed to expand their landholdings or provide dowries for their children. As a result, expensive objects – especially those of foreign origin – were exceedingly rare.”

“The Greek bourgeoisie developed very differently from its European counterparts,” he continues. “We were – and still are – a relatively poor country. But Monastiraki is the perfect place for anyone seeking tangible remnants of Greek history, art and tradition.”