To find 'Found', go through the inside of Kerrytown, down two hallways, up one flight of stairs, and down another. It always takes a few tries to find the storefront— the irony of this is definitely not lost on me. The sign that welcomes you on the staircase reads “Found: an unexpected collection”, and a few steps later it delivers exactly what is promised.
Found is an old favorite of mine, a collection of the hand-me-downs, homemade-anythings, and spare parts that you never knew you needed. In the most loving way possible, it’s like stepping into a junk drawer that you never want to leave. Really, it’s the perfect place to go when things get overwhelming, to instead be surrounded by the smell of old wood and hundreds of candles that accompany a permeating sense of cozy maximalism. I’m not 100% sure what “hygge” means, but I’m pretty sure this counts.
It’s the kind of place that makes it easy to imagine. Every trinket feels like it has some sort of purpose past the obvious, if only you’re willing to consider it. I don’t need an old wax seal with a tiny crown on it, true. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to look at it for a bit too long though, and wonder what things I might be able to seal if only I had an old wax seal with a tiny crown on it. And really, it’s a bummer that I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to find out.
Everything feels delicate and treasured, meticulously placed in a way that makes me nervous to unwittingly crunch somebody’s next favorite teacup. It manages to feel both accidental and perfectly organized at the same time, and there’s a special logic that clicks with this. Dozens of used pool balls live in a basket on the floor, but not the eight balls? Yeah, that makes sense. Cashed checks from 1870 in a box with a note reading “lovely calligraphy”? Couldn’t agree more.
In an era ruled by newness, moments of calm can be hard to come by. Familiarity feels far off in the last year or so, and there’s seemingly something to adjust to with every passing day. So to hell with unprecedented times, give me something rusty and steeped in Ann Arbor weirdness, something that’s changed hands and gathered countless fingerprints before landing here, surrounded by unsorted scrabble tiles and homemade soap. I don’t want another history-making American plot twist, I want a little jigsaw puzzle of a toad riding a bike.
I exit Found about an hour later with a candle that smells a little like a tree and a tiny notebook bound between two floppy disks. As far as serenity goes, that’ll do for now.