I had the opportunity to wander through Pike Place Market today. Seattle has been blessed with gorgeous weather for the past few days; it’s been clear and sunny. Squinting never felt so good. The Pacific Northwest is absolutely stunning when the sun is out.

After purchasing some cookies (you know how it is), I sat on the concrete island at the north end of the market and gazed out at the glittering blue waters of Elliott Bay and the distant shadows of the outlying islands. The snowy peak of Mt. Rainier was poking out above a ring of clouds. People—tourists and locals alike—milled through the stalls, surveying the random items for sale: brightly colored tulips, bars of honey soap, fresh shrimp, framed photographs of the Seattle skyline (I shall likely purchase one to take with me when I move), silver rings, blood oranges.

Indigent people also routinely wander through the area. There is a small park (it’s really just a lawn) with a few totem poles at the north end of the market. People congregate there to eat, sleep, talk, take photographs, watch other people, and deal drugs.

Last year, I had strolled through the market with an outreach worker at the homeless shelter. Our mission was to simply survey the area for people who appeared to be chronically mentally ill and homeless.

To my surprise, they were everywhere.

Suddenly, I saw the old man wearing four jackets, two hats, and two pairs of pants who hadn’t shaved in probably over three months. He was hobbling along the sidewalk, gesturing to himself.

Underneath the stairwell was a middle-aged man in dirty sweats, staring blankly at the far wall.

Crossing the street was a woman, with hair akimbo, clutching a cup of coffee and swinging her arm over her head as if she was preparing to lasso the passing cars.

A man who wasn’t wearing any shoes, revealing his dirty, grimy socks bespeckled with holes, walked the perimeter of the park, eyes downcast and muttering.

Small gaggles of tourists automatically parted around him.

We had no idea if these people were homeless, chronically mentally ill, both, or neither. However, their appearances and behaviors were incongruent with people who have material and social supports.

“This is really sad,” I commented to my guide. “I’ve never seen these people when I’ve come to the market in the past, though they are clearly here. It’s like I’ve trained myself to ignore them, to not see them.”

“Right,” he replied. “It’s like they are invisible.”

We continued to walk along the sidewalk. He pointed out a man on the other side of the street. He was wearing a puffy jacket and a black backpack was slung over his left shoulder.

“That guy right there? With the backpack? When he gets drunk, he gets totally out of control. He thinks that everyone is attacking him, so he gets pretty violent. He looks like he’s sober right now, though it’s still early.”

The man disappeared into the mob streaming along First Avenue.

While nibbling on my cookies today, my eyes floated over the tourists with cameras dangling around their necks, the corporate types in khakis and fleece (it is Seattle, you know) chatting on their cell phones, the high school girls wearing too much eyeliner and tight jeans, elderly couples noshing on nuts and cheeses, and stall vendors playing with their fingers in the pockets of their aprons.

When I saw a man in a puffy jacket with a dark backpack on his back, I blinked in recognition. I looked around the market again.

A man pushing a cart stuffed with bags, blankets, and crates. A woman in a three dirty sweaters smoking a cigarette, an overstuffed bag at her side. A group of three young men, pulling items from their pockets in quick exchange.

They were no longer invisible. They were there the whole time.