My Holiday in North Korea Read Online Free Page B

that envelops the hotel made that ship sail.

    I spent five nights in the Koryo, two of which were consecutive, all of which were in my assigned room: 2-10-28. When I left my room on, say, Tuesday morning, and there were four squares of toilet paper left, and one of the lightbulbs in the bathroom had burned out, and the soap had melted to a sliver, and half of my Large Beer sat atop the ungainly nightstand-cum-AM/FM-radio-cum-alarm-clock next to the bed, two nights later, when I returned, all would be exactly the same. Only another lightbulb in the bathroom would have burned out. By the end of my stay, there were no lights in the bathroom. All of the bulbs had burned out.
    I asked Older Handler why it was that I was put in the same exact room each time we stayed in the Koryo (my handlers stayed in the hotel, too, even though they lived in Pyongyang) and why they didn’t freshen my room in between stays. Older Handler replied, “You can leave your suitcase for $25,” typifying the inane, illogical, insane, absurd, and/or evasive responses I’d receive to all questions, except when people would just plain lie to me instead.
    That North Korea has widespread electricity shortages is well known and well documented, but there is still something truly eerie—and oddly hilarious—about stepping off an elevator onto a floor in pitch darkness. It’s too late by the time you realize. The elevator doors close behind you, and there’s no going back. It’s just so damn dark. Your eyes don’t adjust, and you can’t find the button to summon the elevator. It’s abject blackness.
    Unprepared the first time, I stood there in the dark, laughing at what a caricature of itself NoKo is, as I searched my bag for my flashlight—a.k.a. my cell phone, which was useless otherwise, save for the  Kaplan Vocab for GRE  app that required no internet or Wi-Fi to work. (I learned 169 new words during my trip.) And because it feels like I’m bullying NoKo if I point out that there was no consistent way to unlock my door using the electronic key, which often left me standing in the pitch-black hallway, cradling my phone under my neck as I tried inserting the key in every possible direction until somehow the door magically opened…well, I won’t do that then.
    The gift shop in the Koryo Hotel lobby—which is really more of a bodega that also sells ugly clothes—provided my primary sources of sustenance: milk-chocolate bars and bottled water. It also, inexplicably, sells large pieces of frozen fish, which I often thought about bringing up to the register as a joke. But since I was already doing America no favors with my behavior, I refrained.
    One day when we were driving around Pyongyang, I noticed a modern building that looked inhabited on an island in the middle of a river. (Rule of thumb I came to realize: dilapidated, old building = real building with actual DPRK inhabitants; modern, new building = fakery built to make NoKo look normal.)
    “What’s that?” I asked innocently.
    “Hotel,” Older Handler snapped.
    I pressed on, a lamb to the slaughter, “How does that hotel compare to mine?”
    “Yours is fine,” she barked back through her conversation-ending, tight-lipped smile.
    I realized at some point during my second day that everyone was always wearing a pin with one or more of the Great Leaders on it. At first I thought it was just the handlers, drivers, and other people interacting with tourists, but no, it’s all DPRK citizens except for children, who are not considered citizens until age seventeen. (When I asked Older Handler what you’re considered from birth until age seventeen if not a citizen, she responded, “a child.” Fair enough.)
    Fascinated by a law that requires citizens to wear pins depicting their dead leaders (albeit dead leaders the people believe are still ruling the country posthumously) at all times, I peppered Older Handler with questions about what would happen to you should you be unwilling or