One Dolla, Ten Peso?

An account of a visit to the sensoji temple.

I was back in Mexico. The market stretched for miles, it seemed, but instead of smiling Latinos laughing broken English there was fast Japanese being thrown into the wind, bouncing off the temple walls and landing, wriggling, at my feet. I stared at it and quickly stepped over the mixed jarble and moved on.
Instead of sombreros and maracas there were painted fans and waving cats.
None of the food except corn on the cob was recognizable--non-des-kah (what is this?) became overused and only marginally helpful.

Everywhere there were puzzles, pins, and posters advertising the new Tokyo sky tower that would be opening soon. The work in progress towered in the background of the market and oversaw all of the bustling business from the city skyline, looking down at all that surrounded Sensoji Temple.

In the picturebooks and postcards they never show you the moneychangers and trifles that are shouted for your purchase. They only show the monumental temple--the crimson roof covering the buddhist shrine like a slick, slanting hat, shading the view of the city from the inside.

Walking past the vendors, the smells of squid and grease mixed with the lingering incense of the shrine. Once inside, a steady haunting drum beat echoed through the hall with rhythmic mantras covering up the shouts of the vendors below. Every other second a clink of a yen being thrown by a worshipper would bounce off the gigantic basin at the front of the temple.

Golden Buddha smiled down on it all, gazing at the chanters and the worshippers and the moneychangers out over the whole of the temple grounds--his kingdom. Unlike our God, Buddha kept the moneychanger's tables firmly standing.