My friend Kristen abandoned me in Paris and moved her pretty self back to San Francisco. But before she left, she helped me capture several fabulous redbeards. This guy was found in a tucked away little cocktail bar near Odeon. It's called The Castor Club, and in French, castor means beaver. They have a large taxidermied beaver (that I want to steal) just chilling on a shelf, tunes that remind me of deep Kentucky, and really tasty (mais, trop cher) cocktails. As we sipped our adult bevs, we spotted him, but I was too scared to ask for a photo. Kristen on the other hand, was not. She grabbed his arm as he sauntered by and confidently asked (in French I may add) if he would join my collection and pose for a pic. He happily complied, so there we have it. And he was wearing a cool shirt too. Merci beaucoup mon amie.
One of the hardest things about adjusting to life in France was learning the spots. I mean, it’s quite obvious where to go if you want a crepe, wine, any type of fromage or some cigs. But for example, what’s the French equivalent of Target? Does such a place exist? What about Franco-Bed, Bath & Beyond? Is that out there somewhere? Sometimes I’d consult Google, sometimes ask neighbors, and other times just give up in frustration and scour Amazon.fr.
But when I moved into my Paris apartment, the tiles on the wall of our bathroom were a hideous leaf and flower motif that was shameful to the eyes. Driven by their fugliness, I searched far and wide, and successfully discovered French Home Depot. Its name: Castorama. It was located right near the Eiffel tower, so Max and I metro-ed over and scurried inside. We found some pleasant gray tile paint, a new bathroom rug, and all sorts of other goodies that one might impulse buy at a French Home Depot.
And when we got up to the front, behold! A handsome, hardworking redbeard running the checkout line. It was truly a great day. He scanned all the items we needed to make our bathroom better, and furrowed his brow in concentration. He seemed like a catch, this one. So if any of you reading this find yourself in Paris, make your way to the Castorama near metro Bir Hakeim, and snag this bearded gem. Oh and here’s a bonus shot of my bathroom, post tile paint. So much betta.
Sorry for the delay mes amis. While I was off eating mountains of tzatziki sauce in Greece, someone broke into our place and thieved my computer, therefore my entire photo stash of redbeards. Through email sleuthing, and scouring my iPhone, I think I've rounded up most of them, but ugh, rude as fuck. To make up for my absence, I'll come at you with a tremendously brilliant redbeard.
I don't know his name, but I believe he's dating-ish my ladyfriend James. She texted this after they face-masked together, and I was beyond impressed. He has a rugged mountain man look about him. The type of man that would usually scoff at the idea of skin care. His tats are intriguing, his eyes are kind, and his beard a deep, passionate rouge. You go James, for finding this luscious creature. Never let him shave that beard.
And boom, we've finally reached the Paris times. This striking redbeard was found shortly after we made the move. So in SF, we were living in a furnished apartment. Which means we moved to Paris with basically nothing aside from our clothes, trinkets, pug, and a keyboard piano. When we arrived, we had to buy everything. And an unfurnished apartment in France is like, really empty. We had to buy a refrigerator, oven, dishwasher, faucets, light fixtures, all the normal stuff, like bed, couch, coffee table, EVERYTHING. When you don't speak the language, this is an especially difficult task. Also, you don't really know where to get anything, or where to start looking. You don't even know the word for what you're looking for sometimes. It was stressful.
But on this particular day, we were on a canapé (couch) hunt. I'd been looking around for awhile, and knew what I was after. Ikea, Conforama, Maisons du Monde, and the other usual suspects had failed me, so I'd finally decided on a comfy, L-shaped gray couch from Bo Concept. It was Sunday, so the only Bo Concept open was near Chatelet. Getting my husband Max to pull the trigger on any expensive purchase is not easy, so by the time we'd picked the couch, bartered the price, and finally paid, I was jubilant. The couch ordeal wore us out, so we wandered around in search of a good bite and chill spot. We settled at a Thai place. Lucky for us, a fiery redbeard also decided to eat at that Thai place, and he sat at the table next to us. I didn't want to interrupt his meal, so I had Max snap a quick shot, right as the redbeard was being spoon-fed by his lady. Perfect timing.
While hunting for our Paris apartment last June, a redbeard was spotted. Not on a Frenchman, but what was very obviously, a tourist. He was staring at the Palais de Justice with a gaping maw (or perhaps just yawning), when I found him. I probably should've approached, it's very possible he spoke English, but I think I was in a hurry, off to the next apartment viewing. And the tourists here take pictures of absolutely everything, often with a selfie stick, so I have no shame in taking pictures of them.
I was with my father-in-law at this particular moment, so I had to explain why I was photographing random tourists. Some people find it very odd that I collect photos of redbearded men, but I believe it's good to have a collection of something. It keeps you curious and seeking new experiences. I collect redbeards, and also crushed pennies.