Inside—embedded with the choir being preached to—it’s easy to get swept away, caught up in the moment, in the cheering and crying and endless ocean of waving placards; in the history of the 102-year-old woman from Arizona, a woman older than women’s suffrage itself, who cast her state’s votes for the potential first woman president; in the grief of the Mothers of the Movement, nine African-American women whose children died in racially charged violence, who nonetheless struck an optimistic note; in the obvious joy Bill Clinton took in recounting (at length, often ad-libbed, and probably with some exaggeration) his and Hillary’s story, an overt but probably helpful effort to, as the pundits put it, “humanize” her.

This is stagecraft, and, after all these decades, political parties have gotten pretty good at it. It’s affecting, at times powerful, occasionally overwhelming, a swell of emotion. It gets to you, despite yourself.

The thing you can’t know inside is how it’s playing outside the arena. Sure, you can follow along on Twitter, but you can’t see what Anderson Cooper is saying on CNN or what bullshit Sean Hannity—who was, in a hilariously quintessential Philly moment, reportedly booed out of a Center City Wawa yesterday (though Hannity denied it)—is spewing on Fox.

And in all the commotion, with journalists and delegates bumping into you and convention staff barking at you to not stand in the aisle, it’s also easy to miss things. On Monday night, for instance, I didn’t notice Sarah Silverman’s admonition to the Bernie or Busters that “you’re being ridiculous”; I heard about it on TV the next morning. And yesterday evening, in the wave of applause that accompanied Hillary Clinton’s formal nomination—in another feat of effective stagecraft, it was finalized by Bernie Sanders—I didn’t notice the roughly two hundred Sanders delegates who walked out in protest. (I don’t know for sure how many Sanders supporters left. Because the roll call’s conclusion marked a lull in the proceedings, a large chunk of delegates left their seats anyway.)

I learned about the walkout on Twitter; someone posted that a swarm of Berners had stormed the media tent outside. By the time I got outside, the scene was chaotic: 100, maybe 150 Sanders delegates, surrounded by an almost-equal number of media and a handful of curious onlookers, crowded in front of the large white media tent, with a row of uniformed Philadelphia police blocking the doors, not letting anyone in or out.

The protesters’ arguments were familiar to anyone who’s been following the Bernie or Bust movement, some more credible than others: the system was rigged, the media ignored Bernie’s revolution, Bernie would be the stronger candidate in November. By about eight thirty, the protest had fizzled. By the time Bill Clinton spoke at ten, there wasn’t an empty seat—or an empty space in which to stand—in the house, and there was no audible booing or catcalling.

That’s not to say that the Sanders die-hards’ fever has broken. To wit: