Di Troia’s openness to finding fashion wherever it presents itself reveals a crucial detail about Style Diggers: they’re not purists. They don’t fall into narrow boxes — say, wearing only clothes made before they were born, or decorating only with period-specific pieces — that end up simply replacing adherence to today’s conventions with a set of conventions from another time. When swingers’ culture caught on, a lot of hip Gen X types went whole hog, dressing up their apartments in Eames and Wright. But when the fad passed, they found themselves living in a museum — not of the ’40s and ’50s, but of the late-’90s obsession with that era.

Sterling’s condo does not suggest an exhibition of any one era, or even of any particular theme. And that’s just as he intends it. Glance around the downstairs and your eyes fall on a working 1950s metal fan, a Dial M for Murder–style phone, a top-leaf desk from 1910, a hanging Tiffany lamp, a wrought-iron lamp stand with paper shade, a hardwood table with beveled legs, a wooden desk chair, and four dining chairs with re-covered seats (total cost: under $500). "There’s no continuity in time period of my furniture. The styles clash in that sense," Sterling says. "But I go with what strikes me. I think through your choices, your taste will eventually emerge."

Sterling’s taste, then, seems to blend timelessness (nothing is so closely identified with its era as to be kitschy), true functionality (the fan is not only sleek, he uses it all summer), and even an unpolished, rogue cool (the elegant early-modern brass bed, which he allows to remain tarnished and missing a spoke or two in the footboard). His cumulative style is encapsulated in one nook of his dining room. There, the early-20th-century desk sits graced by a row of old books, a vintage box camera, and a simple chair. The books come from his family’s library, and the camera belonged to his grandparents; the desk was a steal at $90, and the chair cost only $20 before he re-covered the seat himself. Though the elements span the entire last century, they join effortlessly, as if they were meant to come together.

Of course, as the chair indicates, Sterling is willing to work for that impression as well. Many of the items in his home look vastly better than when he first stumbled upon them. His dining-room table was already a lovely dark wood, but he envisioned a tile top, so he taught himself how to inlay tile — and then did it. The yield is a striking and one-of-a-kind piece that would likely sell for 10 times the $70 he originally paid for it.

His lighting elements especially reflect his vision. Instead of the ubiquitous halogen torchieres that spread throughout the homes of the young like some glowing fungus, every standing lamp in Sterling’s home comes from an antique shop. Often painted a terrible color or adorned with an unforgivable shade when he found them, the lamps nonetheless had striking bases, and Sterling had the ability to imagine what stripping them down, repainting them, and replacing the shades could do to restore them to their former glamour. Even if they’re broken, he sees potential. "People don’t realize it’s a piece of cake to rewire," he says, "or that it’ll cost you less than 10 bucks to get a lamp working again."

The lamps cast a warm glow in the condo — no harsh light here — which puts everything in its best light, obviously a plus for the single man who wants to make a good impression. Sterling’s place is the kind of bachelor pad that most women would think only exists in the realm of movies.

Di Troia’s house is just as cinematically attractive, the kind of chic and romantic home young lovers aspire to own someday. (An antique chaise lounge practically begs you to swoon in front of the working fireplace.) Only six months after she moved in, Di Troia’s home is the intersection of the iconic (a huge Coke sign dominates one wall), the classic (a working Victrola), and the campy (circus photos). She and her husband shopped in flea markets, chased down leads, and even bid in online auctions, all to find the details that said this isn’t just any place, it’s our place.

In some WAYS, it’s no surprise that Di Troia is such a Style Digger. She’s been vintage shopping since she was a kid, and remembers fondly the original Strutters in Boston, where she got her first leather jacket — "motocross style, so cool."

But not every Style Digger is born one. Sterling wasn’t exactly sifting through antiques as a teenager growing up in the conservative Midwest. But the economics of college life got him started bargain hunting, which led to cooler and more interesting things. Bump into him at the Brattle Theatre these days, clad in an early-’80s hound’s-tooth overcoat and unhemmed work pants, and you’ll see that all traces of the former young Republican have vanished forever.

So it’s not too late to find your own inner Style Digger. Pay a visit to a few of the area’s diverse vintage shops and antique markets (see "He Shops/She Shops," above) and allow yourself plenty of time to see what they have to offer. Avoid getting sucked into buying something just because you’re there, but don’t let others’ opinions (or current trends) stop you from claiming an item that really speaks to you. You’d be surprised what you can find when you stop looking for what you’re told to like and instead seek that which you actually do like.

At Cambridge Antique, Sterling gives the drop-leaf table a last glance. He shrugs, as if to say, "Nice, but not my style," and turns his attention to the evidence of so many past lives spread out before him: a ’60s light fixture, a Victorian wingback chair, a steamer trunk from the Titanic era. He’s not sure exactly what he’s looking for amid the jumble, but he’ll know it when he sees it.

David Valdes Greenwood wishes he were a Style Digger, but has to settle for being a Style Dipper — one who occasionally scores a great find. He can be reached at valdesgreenwood@worldnet.att.net