Stone steps across the avenue of travelers led me to that peaceful pond filled with koi where I sat and listened to the hubbub of tourists metamorphose into the buzzing rhythm of summer cicadas. Birds plunged in and out of the forest canopy before trying to cling to the open eyelids of 7-meter-high Buddha statues. However, it was a small rocky hillside just before the lineup of caves, where two children and their mother played in the desert-like foliage before the cliffs, which drew me away.

The plaques and identifications all began to escape me the higher I climbed. Voices in the park in the distance droned on, combining all the sounds of the earth. An obscure "Om" hypnotized me as if the voice of every weathered statue hidden in the hill’s rock face was meditating in unison, hidden from the busy tourist lineup so they could, like me, just "be'".

There were no flashing cameras up here, only a small temple where a monk in black and grey linen leaned on a wooden railing while incense burned in the small yard's censer. Two Chinese boys jokingly spoke in broken English while mimicking the dialogue of old Chinese Kung Fu films. They shouted, "Uncle", and tried campy Tai Chi moves, as they happily mimicked a strange piece of Western fiction.

I smiled and reminisced about similar experiences with my colleagues while traveling all over Shanxi. I recalled the kinds of play that come organically and enthusiastically with the joy of traveling the province before our final destination. I remembered the joy that came while sitting serenely among the smiles of 50, 000 Buddhas. And I thought to myself, Only in Shanxi.