Maybe it felt too good to be true, a festival of nationally known musical acts taking over a park for the weekend in the middle of our little city. There’d have to be traffic jams, parking disasters, a public space destroyed.

And how could it be worth all that and the $137-a-day tickets, considering there were only a few big names on the bill?

In the five months since the lineup for the Back Cove Music & Arts Festival was announced, our collective consciousness showed just how conditioned it is to be defeatist, anticipating a Portland-sized version of Fyre Festival at worst and an underwhelming, overpriced inconvenience at best. Most people I know weren’t convinced enough to buy tickets.

But then those of us who did got there, and it was easygoing, well-run and fun. We were shocked.

Sure, there were some complaints, primarily the exorbitant alcohol prices (starting at $12 for a 16-ounce Miller Lite). And I’ve heard the shuttle system wasn’t flawless, but it did seem to succeed in getting people to bike or, like I did, walk.

That was my rationale for splurging on a one-day ticket when they went on sale in February: When would I ever again be able to walk from my home to a music festival? I got mine right away, in case they sold out.

But then they didn’t, and the buyer’s remorse started seeping in, worsening every time I shrugged when asked which musicians I was excited to see or heard someone else voice their skepticism.

When the wristbands came in the mail in a manila envelope without so much as a piece of paper saying what they were, my worry grew again. Then Andre 3000 dropped out, and it seemed like our fears were coming to fruition.

But there was an unexpected calm in the neighborhood Saturday morning. Perhaps people were already avoiding the area. Walking to the festival mid-afternoon, Baxter Boulevard was less busy than on a normal day when the weather is that nice.

I made my way up Front Street, through a neighborhood I’d never seen before, passing by kids selling snacks and people partying outside their home, and didn’t even know I had made it to the entrance — there was no line — until someone cheerfully asked me to remove the contents of my pockets before I walked through a metal detector.

I had left my fanny pack at home, in fear it wasn’t within the size limits, but that apparently wasn’t strictly enforced, judging by what I later saw people carrying around. With a flip of the wrist to scan my bracelet, I glided right into the park where porta-potties were aplenty and emergency personnel were left to socialize.

Even though the festival had already been going for hours, I assumed it still must have been the calm before the storm, but the lines for food or drinks never got long (aside from at one ice cream truck), the crowd never got rowdy and even the bathrooms stayed relatively clean to the end. And while I paid $11 for what was possibly the worst slice of cold pizza I’ve ever eaten, it was hard to get mad at anything that day.

The lack of logistical complications also allowed the main attraction — the music — to shine. (Side note: Aside from a henna artist tent and someone working on a painting, I didn’t see enough “arts” to warrant it being part of the name.)

With the sound and visuals on point at both stages, I wouldn’t be surprised if the festival made more than a few new fans of some of lesser-known bands. I know I’ll be streaming the joyful sounds of Cimafunk the next time the mood strikes. And The Roots replacing Andre 3000? That might have been the best thing to happen to the festival, aside from the weather.

But beyond the professionalism of how the event was run, there was a magic to it, too, most palpable for me as Lord Huron played under the moon while fireworks went off at Hadlock Field, lighting up the city skyline.

As I walked out of the concert, there were still people on the tennis and basketball courts, maybe trying to catch some of the show for free or maybe just because the festival organizers made sure they could.

It was clearly the right move to keep this year’s festival contained, and if there really were 12,000 people there Saturday, it didn’t feel like it. But now that the organizers have our trust, I can’t help but wonder if they could go a little bigger next year, and maybe we wouldn’t have to pay as much for cold pizza and beer.