Monastik Living in Athina

There are two kinds of travellers: those who chase wine lists and thread counts, and those who get genuinely excited by Roman aqueducts. Mr Smith and I? We are one of each. While I’m researching ‘best rooftop bars’ and ‘where to find a martini that verges on a religious experience’, Mr Smith is plotting routes to Unesco sites and listening to podcasts entitled ‘Revealed: proof that aliens carved Göbekli Tepe!’. He calls his travel predilections ‘niche’. I have christened them ‘Historical Shit’. On his birthdays, we embark on Historical Shit adventures, hence a travel bucket list that has so far ticked off Neolithic temples in Malta, a two-hour tour of the Colosseum that crept into the three-hour mark because of questions, a flying visit to see Oslo’s Gokstad Viking ship that resulted in one very permanent thigh tattoo (his, not mine), and one particularly memorable jaunt to Budapest’s largest outdoor soviet sculpture park. (During which we overshot our tram stop, found ourselves lost in Hungarian forest, and sought solace and warmth in a bottle of Jägermeister aboard a horse and cart. A story for another time.)   

So when it came to planning Mr Smith’s Big 4-0 Celebrations, Athens felt inevitable. The birthplace of democracy? Europe’s oldest capital city? Peak Historical Shit. But it had to be Athens done right — no beige, generic hotel with ‘Acropolis views’ plastered across the website allowed. It had to be Monastik Living in Athina: a hotel that understands that when you’re putting 2,500-year-old icons on show, there’s no need to shout about it — you just need to frame them properly. 

It must be said, up front, that Monastik is a very different kind of hotel concept — no spa, no bar, no restaurant. But let me be very clear here: you will not miss them. This is a hotel for people who appreciate the luxury of stripping back to the basics, but only so the details have their space to shine. 

Case in point: our arrival. From the outside, the entrance is low-key to say the least; a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it type. But step inside and you’re greeted with a reception that’s more contemporary gallery than desk — in lieu of actual furniture, there’s a solitary stone totem. There is no clattering keyboard or clipboard theatre. Instead, a laptop smoothly appears on top of said sculpture; a few details are shared on how to get in touch with the 24-hour receptionist and order breakfast to your room (both via WhatsApp; you’ll be nudged for your breakfast order by 7pm the evening before); laptop disappears in a Hermes-worthy sleight of hand. It’s all done and dusted in under five minutes, and we’re gently guided to our room. A few buttons pressed on the door’s digital keypad, we step into our Acropolis View Supreme Suite, and then: that view.

One wall is nothing but glass, and through it, Athens spills out like a sun-drenched mosaic — soft ochre rooftops, cypress trees needling the skyline, shocks of bougainvillea climbing stone walls as if trying to reach the gods. At the centre of it all, rising with casual divinity, the Acropolis. Golden and glowing in the unseasonably strong November sun, backdropped by pure blue skies. It’s godlike, it’s unfathomable, it lives up to the hype. It is, unequivocally, Historical Shit.  

‘Woah,’ breathes Mr Smith. Well, yes. Quite. I’m out to impress, but this is next level. I had scrolled thoroughly pre-flight, of course, but no photo does that panorama justice in real life. Not every room has this view, we’re told — only the suites with ‘Acropolis View’ helpfully in the title. So if you take just one thing from this review, make it this: book one of these rooms. Rearrange dates, juggle budgets, ditch the group chat and fly solo — but book them. You’ll never get tired of staring out of that window. 

Away from the scenery, our room is beautifully judged: pale stone, warm woods, linen-soft textiles, lighting that can set any mood. The suite also offers a secluded terrace with a hot tub, positioned so you can soak while staring straight at the Parthenon, gorging on the complimentary Greek delicacies provided, like some sort of particularly smug Olympian god. If you do miss out on these rooms (or maybe you just prefer your soaking communal?), there’s a whirlpool hot tub on the bijou rooftop terrace, too.  

Throughout Monastik is a pervading sense of calm; the hum of Athens seems distant, even though the buzzy Mets neighbourhood lies only a couple of floors below; a tangle of temples, tavernas and time-worn streets to discover. I send a request for restaurant intel via WhatsApp to reception; a list of walking-distance and slightly-further-afield recommendations immediately arrives. For the next three days, between museum hopping, marathon cheering and taking endless photos of really, really old things, we tick as many of them off the list as possible — the Monastik staff know their stuff.  

On our last night, Mr Smith barely has time to put his phone back on the table before our WhatsApp-ordered cocktails are delivered to our door. Our pre-mixed Negronis arrive perfectly balanced, sloshing around satisfyingly large square ice cubes. Watching dusk fall over the Acropolis, drinks in hand, no distractions... glorious. The perfect summation of a stay at Monastik, really. It doesn’t just offer a view of history — it gives you a front-row seat and has the good sense to let the moment speak for itself.