Athens
The Perfect Place to Get Married, Break Up, and Mistake One for the Other
On Athens, Chaos, and the Spectacle of Being Human
There are cities that merely exist, and then there are cities that insist — on being felt, misread, returned to. Athens belongs to the latter. It isn’t beautiful in any obedient way; it resists polish, coherence, even serenity. It dazzles instead with its defiance — the chipped marble, the cigarette smoke curling over a late-morning espresso, the sound of traffic rising like a hymn to disorder. It’s a city that demands your attention, your patience, and eventually, your affection. Perhaps that’s why my friend Ben keeps going back.
I met Ben (@bentlikebutter) about four years ago on Raya — the dating app, of all places. Romance didn’t quite survive the first week, but something far better did: he became like a brother to me. Maybe that’s the best thing I ever got out of Raya. Since then, Ben has appeared across the coordinates of my life — in Istanbul, in Munich, in Vienna — met my mother and my closest friends. Somewhere along the way, he turned from a stranger on a screen into family.
So when he told me he was going back to Athens, again, this time for his birthday, I couldn’t help but ask why. He is from Vienna, a man of refinement and discernment, whose idea of travel has less to do with destinations and more with atmosphere. And yet, among all the cities he could frequent, it is Athens that continually calls him back. There’s something about that city — its light, its rhythm, its sense of unbothered life — that keeps inviting him back.
Ben and I have always shared a taste for what might be called curated realities — the small ecstasies of order, beauty, and design that make the world feel momentarily coherent. But what binds us more deeply is how chaos insists on trespassing into our carefully composed lives.
I remember visiting him in Vienna once. He lives in one of those immaculate apartments where everything has its place — quiet, high-ceilinged, almost cinematic, with wine glasses that look as if they belong in an opera scene. We were drinking late into the night, talking about love, architecture, and cities that betray you, when he opened the terrace door for some air. It was winter; I told him to close it immediately. He tried — and the door, a hundred-kilogram slab of glass, simply collapsed off its hinges and onto the floor. The sound was biblical. The look on our faces, indescribable.
There we were, two people with allegedly impeccable taste, dragging a fallen glass door across the floor of a luxury apartment, calling the Vienna firefighters on a Sunday night — because really, what does one do when their terrace door has surrendered to gravity? The firefighters arrived, solemn and amused, and duct-taped the entire thing with what I can only describe as heroic tape. What began as an evening of fine wine ended in full absurdity. And somehow, it suited us perfectly.
Returning back to my point:
I’ve been to Athens a few times myself. The first time, I was in sixth grade — a small girl standing in the Greek Parliament, giving a presentation about her countries application to the European Union. It was an early initiation into the theater of diplomacy, a kind of civic absurdity dressed as seriousness. I remember the marble floors, the hush before speaking — the thrill of being slightly out of place and entirely alive.
The second time was with my family — my mother, my sister, and I traveling together for the first time without a tour or itinerary. I was the only one who spoke English, so I chose where we went, what we ate, which bus to take. It was, in retrospect, the first time I felt responsible for my little world. Athens, then, was a city of heat and agency — chaotic, unfiltered, and forgiving enough to let me learn.
And then came this year — my return, and perhaps my reckoning. Athens no longer felt like a destination but a mirror: a place that reflects you back with a kind of brutal honesty. The city is loud, unkempt, proudly unbothered; yet beneath that noise lies a tenderness, a strange intimacy with imperfection. Its beauty isn’t staged — it’s accidental, lived-in, almost tragic in its persistence. You don’t visit Athens to rest. The kind of place where you can have a coffee that lasts three hours, a heartbreak that lasts three months, and a night that stretches into myth. You go there to be reminded that life — like the city — is both ruin and radiance, inseparable in their architecture.
Somewhere between rooftop bars and Byzantine churches, I decided Athens is not a city one simply passes through. It’s a city to endure and to feel through — a setting for the essential dramas of being alive. It’s the perfect place to get married, to break up, or to mistake one for the other. I didn’t find love there, but I did lose it. I attended a stranger’s wedding, broke up with my boyfriend, and then cried through an entire flight home — seated, poetically, beside the man I had just left. It was a scene so absurdly symmetrical it deserved its own chorus. A true Greek drama, equal parts tragedy and farce.
And perhaps that’s the secret to Athens — why people like Ben return again and again. The city doesn’t promise happiness or even clarity. What it offers instead is permission: to live vividly, to fail beautifully, to make a spectacle of being human. It’s the rare kind of place that forgives you for being both the playwright and the fool in your own story.
From Ben:
“Ben, I have an idea — would you be down to do a little collab for my blog, like an Athens Travel Guide?”
“Sure thing,” I said. So here we are:
To me, Athens always feels like a city that hums in warm, golden tones. I go for the food, the art, the Mediterranean light that somehow makes me feel at ease — but mostly, I go for Mona Athens. It’s the kind of boutique hotel that feels more like a secret apartment you’ve inherited from an impossibly stylish friend (this is me now — you’re welcome). Concrete walls, silk robes, art pieces everywhere, linen sheets that breathe like poetry. Mona is sensual minimalism with soul. Everything feels so raw and yet so luxurious. You wake to that Mediterranean light I mentioned, shimmering through sheer white curtains.
I start my days at Mona — the only hotel where I actually stay for breakfast. They serve it in their living room with an open kitchen, and it’s always mezze: one savory and one sweet option.
For dinner, Linou Soumpasis & Co is my go-to. The space used to be a candle shop, and it’s buzzing. The food? Simple, local, maybe even quietly avant-garde. The sourdough pita and taramasalata were the best I’ve ever had.
Then there’s Manari Taverna — a love letter to Greek comfort and open-fire cooking. It’s loud: tables full of laughter, clinking glasses, a bit of chaos (but in the very best way), and a kind of warmth you rarely find in restaurants.
Later, I drift into Wine is Fine, one of those effortlessly elegant wine bars where all the cool people go. When I sat down there this time, the first three songs they played were “Runaway,” “The Less I Know the Better,” and “Lost” — I’ve never felt more at home.
For your art fix, go to the National Gallery, where the stillness feels sacred, then over to Gagosian, where the edges of the contemporary world are constantly being redrawn.
My favorite new find this time was It’s a Shirt — a small Athenian brand that turns European dead-stock fabrics (mostly Italian) into chic, custom shirts. I met the lovely owner (hi, Christina!) and bought two shirts: one for me and one for my dad.
But if I’m honest, my favorite ritual is simply walking through Kolonaki — the neighborhood I stayed in when I first visited Athens years ago, because a Greek girl I met while traveling told me I would love it. All marble sidewalks, espresso-sipping locals, and the occasional scent of leather and oud drifting out of a boutique door. It’s elegance in motion — the kind of place where you feel both inspired (think Upper East Side) and entirely at ease (don’t think Upper East Side).
And in the end, no matter where else I go, I always come back to Athens. Maybe it’s the Mediterranean light. Maybe it’s the food. Maybe it’s the people. Or maybe it’s just Mona — that place alone is reason enough to return.
From Belen:
Restaurants: For the Hungry and the Curious
Athens cooks like it argues — with philosophy, chaos, and conviction.
Taverna Ermou — A taverna disguised as a family secret, just off the city’s commercial artery. Go for the grilled meats, stay for the people-watching.
Manari Taverna — A place where time lingers, and simplicity feels like a moral stance.
Akra — Minimal design, maximal flavor. For those who like their gastronomy with geometry.Oikonomou Tavern — A Petralona institution where history is still served warm. Old recipes, old souls, perfectly alive.
Islandsia — Athens’ answer to effortless cool: natural wine, unstudied charm, and guests who look like they’ve all been photographed before.
Wine is Fine — And indeed it is.
Pharoah — The city’s neo-bohemian temple of taste. Low light, loud music, food that feels both ancient and new.
Cookoovaya — Where my Athenian friend took me — and he was right. A tasting menu that borders on the divine: an ode to excess and control served amid civilised chaos.
Cinemas: Where Athens Dreams
Open-air cinemas are Athens’ gentlest rebellion — proof that the city’s truest luxury is night air and a flickering screen.
Cine Paris — Between rooftops and ruins, with the Acropolis as your accidental co-star.
Thision — The one with the view — and the audience that still applauds.
(Insiders whisper of smaller screens in Kolonaki — less view, more intimacy, as if film itself were a secret.)
Hotels: From Modernist Calm to Mythic Comfort
Apollo Palm — Art Deco bones, tropical mood. Like Miami wandered into the Mediterranean and decided to stay.
Mona — Brutalism with manners. Quiet luxury for those who mistrust luxury.
10AM Lofts — Industrial grace in the city’s creative quarter. The kind of place you book to write, not just to sleep.
The Twenty One — Polished, contemporary, disciplined — the Athenian ideal of order.
Shops:
It’s a Shirt — The boutique equivalent of good tailoring and bad decisions: clean, classic, confident.
10AM Apotheke — Minimal skincare, architectural packaging. Athens distilled in amber glass.
Hyper Hypo — A bookstore that doubles as a gallery. Even the postcards feel collectible.
L’ON — A small universe of restraint and refinement — Greek design at its most Parisian.
Quick Bites: For When You’ve Lost Track of Time
Athens doesn’t do snacks — only small meals disguised as emergencies.
Lefteris o Politis — The city’s most famous meat sandwich. No frills, no plates, no patience.
Stani — An old-school dairy bar serving loukoumades, yogurt, and nostalgia chilled to perfection.
Diporto — Underground, anarchic, almost mythic. A taverna for the faithful and the lost.
Kosta Souvlaki — A cult classic: two bites of perfection wrapped in paper.
Feyrouz — Levantine warmth in Athenian rhythm. Proof that exile refines taste.
Art: Where Myth Meets Modern
National Gallery – Alexandros Soutsos Museum — Recently reborn, Athens remembering that art is also architecture.
Gagosian Athens — Global polish in local light. Even the marble feels curated.
The Breeder — The city’s pulse made visible — raw, political, alive.
Drinks: The Closing Argument
Baba au Rum — Among the world’s best, yet still feels like a local secret. Rum, ritual, and a rhythm only Athens could invent.
So if you ever find yourself in Athens — in love, out of it, or somewhere indecisively in between — know this: the city will forgive you. It will hand you a glass of wine, open a terrace door, and remind you that even the most tragic evenings can end in laughter. Athens is not here to fix you; it’s here to make you feel alive enough not to care.