As last night’s Hillary Clinton event was finishing up here in southern Oregon, a familiar face walked by the press area—a friend from college who now travels with the Senator. He looked great for having been in three states in one day, and after a few minutes of catching up he told me to grab my stuff and come with him.

We walked to the back of Olsrud Pavilion, normally the site of livestock sales and farm equipment expos but yesterday evening the site for one of Clinton’s rural Oregon stops as she campaigns toward the state’s May 20 primary.

With the speech over the campaign’s event soundtrack had been turned back on, songs like “American Girl” and “Don’t Stop Believing.” My friend nodded at a Secret Service agent and then the two of us were walking under the risers that had formed Clinton’s backdrop; into a “green room” draped in blue cloth and filled with local law enforcement officers in their dress uniforms, probably waiting for a picture; and past a table holding a New York Post from November 5, 2000 with a note next to it saying “please just sign.” The paper announced Clinton’s victory in her Senate race and Gore’s defeat in the presidential race.

Through a curtain, across a short stretch of concrete, and then, with my friend as my escort, I was suddenly inside the bubble of Secret Service protection that was surrounding Clinton as she worked the rope line. Because of the late hour Clinton had promised the crowd she would answer their questions one on one rather than doing a Q&A, and my friend wanted me to hear what people say to Clinton as she presses the flesh. This is something people don’t see enough, and don’t understand, he was telling me: the intensity of Clinton’s connection with her supporters, the absolute firmness of their conviction that she should go on.

It was true. Inside the bubble with Clinton, all I heard were older women with misty eyes thanking her, older men telling her to press on with the campaign no matter what, younger men and women saying they couldn’t wait to have her as their president. Clinton would sign things—copies of her book, scraps of paper, campaign signs, a copy of an emailed letter to the editor complaining about Clinton’s treatment in the press—and then she would lean in to answer questions and I would lean in behind her, just a foot or so away, trying to hear the exchange above the cheers and the music.

The first question I heard was from a young man asking about gay marriage (Clinton explained she supports civil unions). There was another question about violent video games, another about health care funding, and then it was mostly gift giving and people pleading with her to stay in the race. She received a sticker to put on her car that would identify her as part of the Holy Ghost Racing Team. She smiled. She was handed packages, letters, a necklace, a CD with a copy of a song an older woman had recorded for Bill. She laughed easily, shook hands warmly, signed everything in sight (except money, not allowed).

“Can I shake hands with you?” a woman asked gently. “God bless you.”

“Thank you for hanging in,” said a young man in a blue shirt. “I hope you win, I really do.”

It’s hard to describe the blast of supportive emotion that was directed at Clinton wherever she turned. We were making our way around a cordoned-off circle that surrounded the stage she’d used for her speech, and she was soaking it up, no longer the self-consciously straight shooting and un-flashy presence she cultivates on stage as a contrast to Obama’s soaring oratory.

Instead she was at ease, listening…

…laughing…

…and signing everything in sight, “Hillary.”

She didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. I wouldn’t have wanted to leave, either. It was all praise and support and good wishes in the bubble. It was lovely. It was another world.