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surely, because of the language barrier. Near-perfect as Sergei's English is, I know he
misses some of the nuance in my random thoughts and bad jokes. But when he and Boris
would gossip or talk about how and why we were reporting a story the way we did, I could
sense a puzzled curiosity on their part, not unlike feelings I sometimes had toward them.
Close as I am to Sergei, I don't think I'll ever fully understand him in the way I do friends
from home. To me, it's a reminder that culture matters—everywhere, but especially in Rus-
sia, a place I'll also never fully understand.
And I do worry about Sergei. He has a stable job with NPR, but Tania works at a sock
factory, and we know how uncertain manufacturing jobs are everywhere in the world, es-
pecially in Russia. And Anton's bright future in the medical field could be halted at any
moment if the government swoops in and forces him to go into the military.
“Sergei, tell Tania and Anton hello—and please, please keep me updated on Anton and
the military service. I am keeping my fingers crossed.”
“Thank you, David.”
We hug in the lobby.
“Fly safely,” I tell him.
With that, Sergei pushes the silver handle down on his roll-aboard suitcase, lifts it up to
carry it down the stairs outside, and climbs into the backseat of a waiting taxi.
I spend the afternoon walking around the city, which has the feel of San Francisco. Hills
packed densely with houses and buildings overlook a harbor with several attractive bridges.
The city streets are full of cheap Chinese goods. The main hotel is the Hyundai, a headquar-
ters for South Korean businessmen who come through in droves. There is a direct ferry
from here to Seoul, but it takes hours more than it should, because the ferry has to bypass
North Korean waters.
There is, however, the Pyongyang Café. I've been before, and decide to return on this
night for dinner. The restaurant, I have come to learn, is owned by the North Korean gov-
ernment and operated as a form of propaganda (and profit making). It is an irony that I am
heading here to dine—and support the regime in Pyongyang—on the very day the North
Koreans unleashed rhetoric threatening to nuke my home country.
The place is attached to a hotel, decorated with pastoral scenes of the mountains in
North Korea. There is a bar area, with a large television used for karaoke, but right now, to
play bizarre scenes from a recent concert in Pyongyang—the audience is clapping as men
in military uniforms march around a stage with Disney-like characters (no sign of Dennis
Rodman so far.)
My server is named Elena. She has fashion-model looks and is dressed in a traditional
North Korean flowing gown. In limited Russian I ask where she's from. “Pyongyang,” she
says. In limited English she asks if I'm British. After a dinner of kimchi and Korean barbe-
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