The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversation fill the air at Café Riche. Sunlight streams through the windows, casting a warm glow on wooden tables that have hosted generations of writers, artists, and revolutionaries. This is where Naguib Mahfouz once sat, where political activists gathered and Egypt’s history lingers quietly in the worn-out chairs and framed photographs lining the walls. A few streets away, Souq Diana comes to life every Saturday. Vendors unpack old vinyl records, movie posters, and secondhand books. Vintage watches glint under the fading afternoon light, and old film cameras sit on display. The whole market feels like a time capsule—fragments of Egypt’s past spread out on the street, waiting for new owners to give them a second chance. With a vintage digital camera in hand, a collector moves through the stalls, capturing details—a rusting Pepsi sign, a typewriter missing a few keys, a stack of postcards from a long-forgotten decade. Nostalgia is not just a feeling, it is a commodity, and in Egypt, the past is proving to be more valuable than ever. But why is nostalgia selling so well? And is this…
