The Buddhists and the rubbing belly

When we saw a flowered elephant statue carrying a tiny golden child, we knew we were walking in the right direction. One subway exit and two wrong turns had led us astray, but we forged on, determined.

The largest Buddhist shrine in Seoul is small enough to be hidden in the caplocks of nearby buildings. Down an alley we walked towards a locked door labeled Buddhist Education Center, thinking we’d found it. Wrong.

A crossed armed Korean stopped us from following two young girls down another alley search, instead looked at our map and pointed out the way. We should have seen it coming. The gold glistened from a distance, poked out of opened windows.

The three-statue shrine stood at least two stories, like my Buddha trinket blown up into three looming helium balloons. Like a lawn of grass the ceiling held hundreds of paper -thin flags blowing in tune with the bouquet of fans cooling off the Buddhists.

The shoes came off outside as the believers bent down and whispered at the floorboards. They repeated this again and again as we tried not to spook them, lingering at the open windows wondering how Catholics would feel if we spied on communion.

We clicked our cameras all the same. So did the Arabs beside us, the white people by the fountain. On the street were thousands more Buddhas shrunk down to pocket size. Two blocks of gift shops led the way back to the bus stop, spots for agnostics to credit worship.

And I had to think: so long as there is belief, there will be both buying, and selling.