Every year, America asks the same existential question: Is the stock market open, or is capitalism doing a vibes-only sabbath? Wall Street replies by shrugging in premium wool and ringing a bell like it’s summoning liquidity from a seance.

Columbus Day, a holiday honoring a guy who took a wrong turn and still got a press release, is perfect for markets that mistake GPS for destiny. Traders commemorate by sailing into price action, announcing they discovered momentum, and naming it after themselves.

Tradition dictates equities put on their business-casual optimism, while bonds curl into a hammock and perform stillness with the dedication of a method actor. Stocks whisper, ‘We’re openish,’ and Treasurys reply, ‘We’re napish,’ which is finance for the usual marriage.

Meanwhile, investors refresh their apps like pilgrims seeking a prophecy, hoping the little green dot says Today Is A Real Day. Brokers send emails with the energy of a divorced lighthouse: we’re open, but we won’t guide you anywhere.

I check the official calendar, then my unofficial superstition calendar, then the desk gadget that just screams when volatility spikes. My LED market hours sign blinks ‘it’s complicated’ like a teenager’s relationship status, which, coincidentally, is also how I’d describe the S&P to its therapist.

Algorithms observe federal holidays the way cats observe boundaries: with contempt and a slow blink. Today they honor discovery by rediscovering the same momentum trade three thousand times before lunch and planting a flag in your stop-loss.

Down on the floor, a ceremonial bell is polished by interns who were told this is networking. The bull statue looks like it spent the long weekend reading stoic philosophy and pretending not to check futures at 3:17 a.m.

Television anchors speak in a soothing fog: markets are openish, closedish, and above all guidance-neutral. They say normal hours the way pirates say map — with a wink and a missing island.

Retail traders mark the occasion by finding a confetti animation in their app and the same ancient itch to swipe. Someone gifts me a noise-canceling trading floor headset so I can finally hear the tiny sob of price discovery over the roar of vibes.

Executives, sensing a draft from reality, downgrade guidance from robust to coastal breeze. Any dip will be blamed on geopolitics, continental drift, and a surprise encounter with arithmetic.

Meanwhile, the bond market reclines like a Victorian fainting couch with coupons, declaring observed holiday in italics. Its out-of-office reply is just a graph of yawning.

So, is the market open? Sure, in the way Columbus found a place people were already using: loudly, confidently, and with a commemorative map that forgets context. If you’re still unsure, do what Columbus did — declare it open and plant a tiny flag on the ‘Closed’ sign.