Slightly Less Ancient Athens

"It tilts. Look."

"No no no- it's the shop that tilts. See how the old the wooden floor is? This is straight. It's the only straight thing in the shop."  We are looking at a majestic four-tired hotel tray of tarnished zinc- listing like a ship- and discussing its price. It's just a ritual; I don't care what I pay for it. The tray is the thing I have been waiting for my whole life to bring me closer to fulfillment and just never knew it- like a very, very minor version of falling in love. Considering the cut glass ice bucket, tongs, and a small silver cup that I bought that day, the tray itself was probably around 55? I could probably have got it down to 40, I think, but then it was July and it was so hot, and also I would have paid a hundred and not minded a bit- love's like that. Three-tiered trays are common enough; a four-tiered tray though, that sets a tone. We like our everyday life to have a tone. The tray is as tall as a toddler; if we lived in New York, it would barely be affordable to keep it filled with pomegranates, lemons, persimmons, and pears. 

After browsing the crustaceans at the Varvakios fish market, I passed a stall on the other side of the street with a charming mid-century amateur oil painting of more crustaceans- a lobster and two crabs. Dishes and tea pots spilled out into the street. The wooden spiral staircase at the back, nearly obscured by platters, chandeliers, accordions, phonograph records, candelabras, and clocks hanging from the banisters and walls, could only just be made out. It makes a full two revolutions before it reaches the main floor. And that main floor was shocking- a corridor and five or six rooms- some of these large galleries- are each filled with heaps of every imaginable thing, with as much order as the sacks of loot of pirates. It is tantalizing, dazzling. Dazzling and dangerous. The walk spaces are narrow, and the goods are piled so high and so deep it seems that not a tenth of them could ever be reached. The ceilings are high too, and tall windows let in some light in the distance. Were it not for this, it would feel like the vault of Bellatrix in Harry Potter, where when you touch anything it multiplies, and soon you are adrift on a swelling wave of candlesticks and water pitchers.

You expect a shop like this to be tended by an old man. Actually, it is a bunch of young guys from Egypt. I don't know how they came to have the shop. They're very genial, and seem to make a good price on the whole, throwing in presents you have at the edge of your pile (little marble dachsunds, for instance). Here are some of the things we have come home with. They make our life more sumptuous every day-

Souvenir spoons from a long-ago trip to Hungary.

Chinoiserie assembled over the course of three visits- they have a lot of it.

We have these tissue-thin etched glasses in two sizes, for water and for wine.

This cream pitcher has a matching sugar bowl. They have a satisfying weight.

No one ever cradles a tea cup and says "Do you remember when that thunderstorm came out of nowhere, and we rushed into Ikea, drenched and laughing, and you found these in plain sight with thousands of others exactly alike?" When you are in a city that has such a story as Athens, it inspires you to have one too, one for everything- to seek things that have stories of their own. 

The Bazaar is directly across from the Varvakios market, on your left as you cross Athinas St. They keep the hours of the market, and then some. After you shop, go for a chai. A sweet slice of Lahore is just a street or two away.