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Touching down in Portland, Oregon, for my graphic design exchange program, I was filled with excitement and nervous energy. Everything was different — the smell of roasted coffee in the air, the politeness of strangers, even the overcast skies. I wandered downtown on my first weekend, wide-eyed at the murals and vintage shops. While browsing a quirky bookstore, I stumbled upon a sign pointing to a “Pokémon Card” event. That one unexpected word from my childhood instantly pulled me in.
I hadn’t thought about Pokémon in years, but seeing “Pokémon Card” plastered across the bookstore’s lower level triggered a rush of memories. My younger self trading cards during lunch breaks, trying to memorize each creature’s power. The shop owner, seeing my curiosity, smiled and gestured me downstairs. The moment I stepped in, the room was buzzing — colorful banners, shiny cards behind glass, and people of all ages talking strategy and sharing collections like long-lost friends.
Portland’s streetwear scene surprised me. Everyone seemed effortlessly stylish — from thrifted denim to oversized hoodies and rare sneakers. At the Pokémon event, I noticed a fascinating crossover: fashion-forward teens wearing custom Pokémon graphic tees, vintage caps, and designer sneakers. Pokémon wasn’t just a game — it was part of their identity. I realized this wasn’t just about nostalgia. It was culture, fashion, and personal expression rolled into one. I felt like I’d discovered a world within a world.
That weekend, I visited a local store named “Guardian Games,” a space dedicated to trading cards and collectibles. Walking in felt like entering a temple of imagination. A whole wall displayed legendary Pokémon Cards — including holographic Charizard, Blastoise, and modern V-Union sets. A young staff member saw my wide-eyed wonder and offered to help. I told him I was new, and he smiled, placing a mystery booster pack in my hand. “Let the magic choose you,” he said.
I opened the pack with trembling hands. Each card felt sacred, as if holding a piece of someone’s dream. I pulled a holographic Pikachu — its electric yellow glow catching the store lights. My heart jumped. For a moment, I wasn’t a foreign student trying to adapt — I was a kid again, eyes wide with possibility. The store owner noticed and gifted me a Pikachu card sleeve. It was a small act of kindness that made the city feel like home.
Over time, I started noticing how Pokémon culture bled into street fashion. Limited edition hoodies featuring Gengar graphics, tote bags with minimalist Poké Ball designs, and even custom Air Force 1s painted with Eeveelutions. The line between fandom and fashion was nonexistent. Inspired, I designed my own oversized hoodie with a Mewtwo silhouette and wore it to class. My classmates loved it. Pokémon Cards, unknowingly, became my bridge — from outsider to insider, from nervous to confident.
A month later, I flew to New York to visit the official Pokémon Center store near Rockefeller Plaza. It was every bit as enchanting as I’d imagined. Giant Pikachu statues, rotating card displays, and interactive kiosks made it feel like a living game world. I spent hours exploring merchandise, watching card battles, and picking up exclusive Pokémon Cards unavailable elsewhere. I left with a limited-edition binder, a Charmander plush, and a memory more valuable than any rare pull.
What fascinated me most was how the Pokémon Card scene brought people together. I met collectors from Japan, Germany, Brazil, and across the U.S. Every conversation began with favorite cards, then expanded to shared experiences. Language barriers faded over strategy talks and card trades. In one session, a Korean student and I bonded over our mutual love for Gyarados. These cards weren’t just games — they were bridges across borders, symbols of universal wonder and connection.
As my semester wrapped up, I realized how deeply Pokémon Cards had shaped my U.S. experience. They gave me comfort during homesick nights, confidence in social settings, and a creative spark in my designs. More than anything, they reminded me of the joy of discovery — both in childhood and adulthood. Before flying back, I bought one final booster pack at the airport. Inside was a holographic Lugia — strong, legendary, soaring. Just like the version of myself I’d become.