As I walk down the crowded streets of Portland, Oregon, I wonder how it is possible for anyone to get anywhere on time. There’s a busy blurring of color as people seem to stream out of cracks in the sidewalk, like the leftover water from a recent downpour. This is what Portland is like – a rapidly churning river of hustle and bustle, of unnoticed hellos of passersby. This is another detail of Portland: it has an air of nonchalance about its simple, natural but familiar kindness that only a visitor could recognize.

The Saturday Market is one of its many tentacles that I happily suction myself to. Kindness goes less unnoticed here and becomes more deliberate. This is where the local, creative minds camp for a day to mix their care into the indifference and add depth to it. Here, the colors aren’t unfocused, but vibrant and shimmering. The flood makes way for rainbows of flowers, personalities, and booths of homemade everything.

Each table holds someone’s own world; I find myself being drawn in like a moth to light. In one world I taste a mother’s love for freshly grown vegetables and delicious pasta dishes. In another, I see a young man’s array of emotions as he paints a psychedelic swirl of jumbled roads. In yet another, I am present in the experiences of an older widow as she plucks the chords on her well-worn guitar. And as I witness this small galaxy, I never hear a plea or scam to get me to buy something. There is only appreciation that I have traveled to each newfound planet.

The couple of hours spent there aren’t enough. With each speeding minute, yet another wonder drifts by on the wind, blowing through my hair. After all, the true beauty lies in the air; the grass that is so soft and cool under my bare feet, the music that opens my mind to the depths of someone else’s, the creations that transport me to places nothing else can. They all meet and bond in the oxygen, allowing everyone to breathe in the same love and for once exist on the same level. The song that I can hear my heart beat is proof of this, because everyone taps their feet to it too.

Every passing stranger is a puddle reflecting the awe that is etched into the faces of the neighbors of this city. And there is inspiration written in these lines as well, to find an outlet just like all these creative minds have. A determination that I too will be presenting here next Saturday, adding myself to the crazy calm. I can picture myself behind my own waist-high, wooden table, selling photographs of my journeys or towering wire sculptures of cartoons or paintings of people I have met.

Styrofoam cups of tea that smell fresh and warm are given out as the day makes its way below the sky. I have explored half the market without realizing that it’s dark in such an illuminating atmosphere. I am baffled but I become aware of my aching feet and tired eyes, knowing that departure doesn’t have to be melancholy when such healthy thought processes have been filling and leaving my lungs.

To be here is to be artistic. There is no way to experience such a place without inquisition or curiosity of the seemingly small aspects of life, and the willingness to hear of these aspects from most people you pass. Opinions flow freely here and judgment is replaced with genuine interest in the many disagreements that can be heard, without the need of yelling or raised voices. You are in the mood. You are in the frame of mind. You are in a peaceful trance. You are in the calming blur. You are content, yet you are longing. You have opened to the world like a blooming bud to the sunlight. You are here and you are now. You are in Portland, Oregon.