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While the U.S. government permits its citizens to go to North Korea, the DPRK's ever-changing restrictions on Americans makes such a visit difficult. My twelve-day trip scheduled for 2006 was shortened to ten days, then to six days, then nixed altogether. In 2007 I was scheduled to be in the country for six days, but a week prior to departure it was cut to a mere three days.

Shortly before our flight is scheduled to depart from Beijing for Pyongyang, the company that has put the tour together holds an orientation session. We are urged to obey the rules because it is our North Korean guides who will get in trouble if we misbehave. The two cardinal sins are disrespecting Kim Il-Sung or Kim Jong-Il and wandering off from the tour group unsupervised. A lesser infraction is taking an unauthorized snapshot, which includes photographing "anything that might embarrass the regime." An example we're given is "an overflowing trash can - not that you'll actually see one during your trip."

The tour company rep offers some suggestions on what gifts to bring for our guides - chocolate, cigarettes, makeup for women, "and whatever you do, please don't give them a Bible, it will only offend them and end up in the trash, and please don't do what someone did last time, can you believe she wrote them a thank you note and signed it 'Jesus loves you.'" The rep tells us that the handful of Christian houses of worship in Pyongyang are not "propaganda" churches. He mentions a pastor from New Zealand who, after two decades of visits, says that if the congregants he worships with aren't real Christians, then they're the world's best actors.

The Pyongyang airport terminal is the smallest I've ever seen. For reasons unknown even to the experienced tour company rep that accompanies us on our journey, some of us were issued individual visas while seven of us were put on a single "group" visa. I now am told that I was randomly designated the "leader" on the group visa and that had I failed to show up at the airport in Beijing, none of the other six travelers would've been admitted into the country.

As we wait for our luggage, a large color TV set that a North Korean passenger apparently purchased in Beijing glides by on the carousel. Metal detectors and luggage x-ray machines are ubiquitous in airports, but where else are they used on passengers getting off arriving planes? We're asked to hand over all cell phones (not they would actually work in the DPRK). Most travelers are waved through, but I'm asked to open my duffle bag. An official fans through the books I've brought with me and, seeing the gifts I've packed for our guides, mutters "chocolate, so much chocolate." He is gruff and impersonal, but when finished breaks out into a warm smile. "I am so sorry for opening your suitcase!"

Built in 1982 and modeled after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, this one is a few feet taller and thus lays claim to being the tallest arch in the world. But while Paris's is a swirling beehive of cars and people, here the structure's impressive size exaggerates the odd quiet and lack of human activity.

We were warned long ago that we'd be asked to bow here and that failure to do so would seriously sour relations with our guides. It's not a moment I'm looking forward to, but our tour rep had explained to us that for North Koreans, it's not a matter of showing respect but rather not showing disrespect - a distinction without a difference I wondered. But then I remembered some of my atheist relatives who stayed at our home and who bowed their heads and closed their eyes when we said grace, simply to be courteous. North Koreans similarly view a tourist's bow as nothing more than a polite gesture.

But now an added wrinkle from our guides: "It would also be good if you purchase some flowers to lay before the statue of our Great Leader." I and a few others oblige before we bow in unison. As if the scene weren't strange enough already, rain starts to come down and flashes of lightning fill the sky. At least we got that over with I tell myself, no more bowing to Kim Il-Sung. But I will end up bowing three more times before the trip is over.

Throughout the trip, interactions with our four guides, two of whom are trainees, are more revealing about North Korean society than any of the sightseeing experiences. They are easy to get along with. They never bark out orders but instead offer suggestions, e.g., "it is better not to," and we get the message.

Our head guide Dak-Ho still has his guard up on the first day. I try to ask him what North Koreans believe about the afterlife. I suspect he fears I'm gearing up to talk to him about Christianity because he employs a tactic I will see on a few occasions when our guides want to change the subject: a long and completely irrelevant reply. He tells me about Kim Il-Sung and how the country struggled to defeat the Japanese and Americans and what a great tragedy his death was to the nation. Huh? The next day I reframe the question around ancestor worship in Korean culture. He's become more comfortable with us by now. Yes he says, in North Korea people do maintain and visit the graves of their ancestors. And do their spirits live on after their bodies die? Yes. And President Kim Il-Sung? He lives on in our hearts.

Dak-Ho says that Chandoism is the "national religion of Korea" and that there is a Chandoist political party in addition to the ruling Worker's Party of Korea. The odd part is that, despite it being the national religion, there only a few thousand believers - fewer than the 10,000 Christians that the DPRK claims to have. I tell him "but I thought Juche was the national religion of the DPRK." From his reaction I can tell he thinks I've said something foolish. "Juche is the national philosophy. Religion, it is about the God."

I ask him whether he is a WPK member. "No..." For someone who has a pretty good poker face, a fair amount of frustration has been expressed in his delivery of that word. It's clear this is something he wants very badly. He tells me membership is by invitation only, for people who do good things for the country and demonstrate their loyalty to General Kim Jong-Il. I can't tell whether he blames himself or the Party over not being invited.

Nevertheless, this guy has sense of humor. As we go to an area famous for the locally grown ginseng, he tells us all the health benefits of the herb - good for liver, blood pressure, etc. And then with a straight face adds "it is also beneficial for the nightly activities" just to see if we're paying attention. Later on he says he has a joke he shouldn't tell us but feels he has to anyway. St. Peter is admitting people into heaven, but before opening the pearly gates he asks them to demonstrate whatever it is they were most known for doing on earth. Leonardo Da Vinci steps up and St. Peter says, "What were you famous for?" and Da Vinci whips out a paintbrush and creates a masterpiece. "Very good," St. Peter smiles and lets him in. Albert Einstein steps up, produces a complex mathematical equation, and St. Peter smiles and lets him in. George W. Bush appears and St. Peter asks him to demonstrate what he was most famous for. "I don't understand what you're asking" Bush replies. "Well," St. Peter says, "Da Vinci made us a painting and Albert Einstein produced a mathematical equation." "Da Vinci? Einstein? Who are they?" Bush asks. St. Peter smiles and lets him in.

It seems a bit contradictory to hear this from the same person who had earlier warned us not to disrespect Kim Il-Sung and Kim Jong-Il or fold a newspaper across one of their photos. Still, I find this gentle ribbing preferable to the angry anti-American diatribes I'd expected to hear. As we get back on the bus after visiting a museum documenting America's "crimes" he jokingly asks us, "So have you all gotten a good brain washing?"

Opened in 1995, the Yanggakdo Hotel where we stay each night is one of the two hotels, along with the Koryo Hotel, where all Pyongyang's foreign tourists are housed. From what I understand, neither is ever close to being filled to capacity. The Yanggakdo sits on a small island in the middle of the Taedong river that runs through Pyongyang. Also on the island is a nine-hole golf course and a cinematheque that houses the biennial Pyongyang international film festival that has screened Western films such as Bend it Like Beckham, though no U.S. films so far. With access on and off the island limited to one road, it's easy to ensure that foreigners don't wander into the city without permission. But perhaps equally significant is that it discourages local North Koreans from coming onto the island to mingle with foreigners.

Below the hotel lobby is a three-lane bowling alley and a karaoke bar. The floor below that, leased by a Macau businessman, is off-limits to all North Koreans, even our guides. My roommate and I venture down here around 11:00 pm to find dance music blaring and a host bidding us to enter. But the disco turns out to be completely deserted.

The hotel, considered the most luxurious in the DPRK, is in many respects comparable in quality to a good American hotel, but with a few wrinkles: if two people are staying in a room, they must share a single key; married couples still get a room with two twin beds; and of course the water is undrinkable. One member of our group mixes whiskey and hotel tap water, thinking the alcohol will kill any bacteria, and he pays for his mistake the next morning. He's too sick to join the group, and one of our guides has to stay behind that day to check in on him once an hour to ensure he hasn't wandered off the premises.

North Korea's Juche ideology blends Marxism, Korean nationalism, Confucianism, and of course worship of the Great Leader. We ride the elevator up the Juche tower which is topped with an artificial flame. The observation deck offers a panoramic view of Pyongyang, including something not visible from the street below – a decaying building complex only a few blocks away. The only graffiti I will see on my trip is up here, some Chinese characters various visitors seem to have etched into the gold-painted base of the flame with their fingernails.

Panmunjom and the adjacent "Joint Security Area" at the southern border is not holy ground like the Mansudae monument, and despite the heavy military presence, the mood is surprisingly casual. The older soldier who shows us around is good-natured, and when a slender blonde asks if she can pose for a photo with him, he replies "I normally don't like to pose with Americans, but when I see a woman as beautiful as you..." In fact he's quite happy to pose with Americans and hopes we can later send him prints of our photos with him.

We're shown the room where the Korean War armistice was negotiated and another room where it was formally agreed to. Details that seem insignificant to us hold great significance for the North Koreans. For example, the fact that the Americans were willing to hold the signing ceremony in a tent and that the North Koreans insisted on building a permanent structure. Or the fact that the American representative got confused and had to flip through the document before being told where to sign -apparently proof to the North Koreans that, in addition to being diabolical imperialists, Americans are also hapless morons.

When we actually get to the divide between north and south, one member of our group strays a little too close and one of the guards claps his hands loudly as a warning to step back. The southern side appears deserted until an American soldier in camouflage fatigues and dark glasses shows up with a large camera and starts photographing us. It's unclear why he's doing that, as there are already numerous mounted security cameras. We conclude this is done to send some a message to the North Koreans - we're watching how you treat your guests.

We then go into a multi-story building for a better view from the balcony. There has been much speculation that the structures on the northern side of the border are just "propaganda facades" like those you'd find on a movie set, intended to make North Korea look more developed than it really is. But it's easy to see as we walk up its marble-clad steps that this building is very real. Google earth satellite photos I will later look up suggest that the nearby buildings are also real.

A visit to a stamp shop takes us past the Koryo Hotel and what appears to be one of the main boulevards in Pyongyang. It's just after dark, and in any other city such a place would be teeming with activity. But here the streets and sidewalks are empty. From each deserted window on the multistory buildings that line the street comes the faint greenish/white glow of a compact fluorescent bulb. The only large groups of people we see are crammed inside streetcars or waiting at streetcar stations.

Our guide on the ship, a slender older man in military uniform, is one of the sailors who captured the U.S.S. Pueblo in 1968. At the time the U.S. insisted it was merely a research vessel but the North Koreans claimed was a spy ship. It's generally accepted the ship was indeed gathering military intelligence, the only real dispute being whether it was in international or DPRK waters at the time of its capture. A copy of the letter the U.S. signed admitting it was 100% guilty of spying and trespassing is mounted on the ship's wall. That the U.S. signed this order to win release of its imprisoned sailors matters not to the man showing us around - as far as he's concerned, this is slam dunk proof that the DPRK was in the right.

Outside the ship, newly on display, is something that looks to me like a big torpedo but which the ship's guide claims is a U.S. unmanned spy submarine captured in 2005.

Chul-Moo's eyes communicate little and his small frame never seems at ease. Either his English is poor or he doesn't like Americans or he's just shy. Training to become a guide, he doesn't seem at all cut out for it. But in a country like this, what choice does he have?

One member of our group decides he needs to be challenged. "Who is going to run the country after Kim Jong-Il dies? Where does Kim Jong-Il live? How many children does he have?" This makes poor Chul-Moo visibly uncomfortable. Were he more experienced, he could easily flick these questions aside. But he seems stuck between a rock and a hard place: a candid answer could get him in serious trouble but professing ignorance would cause him to lose face. He says "I don't know" and walks away. I don't feel I can approach him, and he never shows an inclination to make conversation with me. I also will realize after the trip is over how camera shy he is, as I don't see him in a single one of my hundreds of snapshots.

Contrary to what I'd read about a bicycling ban in Pyongyang, I see many cyclists, including one being given a ticket from a female traffic cop on a motor scooter. While there isn't exactly a crush of traffic during the day, on some streets at least there are enough cars to occupy the female traffic cops stationed at intersections. We're told they work in two hour shifts during the day, and then at night the traffic lights take over.

As our tour bus heads to the coastal city of Nampo, we're told that the number of meters of this eight-lane, deserted highway is somehow related to the Great Leader's birthday. We see a surprising number of military people by the road. They're on bicycle or on foot, in the middle of nowhere, and don't seem to be doing anything in particular. We get to see a lot of the Korean countryside, and it's pretty much all the same: lots of undeveloped land and occasional farms that only rarely have mechanized equipment. We frequently see small dirt pyramids, perhaps two feet tall, with a square white protrusion in the middle perhaps eight inches tall. These mounds are sometimes spaced only a few dozen feet apart, sometimes miles apart. We speculate that these are used to mark boundaries between plots of land. But then our guide explains that each marker measures the distance from that point to Kim Il-Sung Square in Pyongyang.

In North Korea you aren't permitted to pass another car on the left. A slow moving jeep with military men inside in the far left lane thus prevents our bus from passing him in any of the empty three right lanes. Our driver is getting annoyed. He pulls up behind the soldiers and honks his horn repeatedly. They stand their ground, refusing to speed up or change lanes. This goes on for about five minutes before our exasperated driver passes them on the right.

If Pyongyang is the DPRK's showcase city, then Kaesong is closer to how most North Koreans live. There is one large Kim Il-Sung statue, and as we start up the steps to get a closer look our guides ask us not to go any closer. The tour company rep tells us that at night a power outage can darken the whole city, but the monument will remain lit. The statue stares down at a wide boulevard below. Pedestrians freely walk across it as there are no cars. Bicycles nevertheless stay inside the bike lanes painted on the sidewalks. When our tour bus finally goes down this road, the driver has to repeatedly honk before the pedestrians realize there is a vehicle that needs to get past them.

I had been told to expect unremarkable food and lousy service. Wrong on both counts. The food is delicious and plentiful, and the service is always friendly. At one restaurant the waitresses even sing for us and pull some of us out of our seats to dance with them. Only the coffee leaves something to be desired - it appears that all the North Koreans have is instant powder.

Outside one restaurant I hear horrific squeals and turn around to see an arriving cyclist with a squirming pig strapped down sideways to her bike rack - hardly the blissed out swine depicted at the Mass Games performance. Needless to say this strange sight to my eyes raised doesn't merit a second glance from any of the locals.

At another restaurant we're offered dog stew, but after a long wait the offer is withdrawn when the staff determine that their dog is "not of sufficient quality" for their foreign patrons. Outside I see a mutt tied down to a stake and try to pet it. Growling, it lunges at me, and I realize this is perhaps what we were to have eaten. My foolhardy effort at least elicits a chuckle from our otherwise inscrutable guide Chul-Moo. I've been on the lookout for dogs, because a society that can afford to have pets is a society with adequate food. But during our trip I will only see one dog being walked on a leash, a German Shepherd and presumably a guard dog.

The circus is old-fashioned, and its production values unsophisticated. Still, the performers are first rate and there's even a surprisingly good live orchestra. Pyongyang has a military circus that's supposed to be even better, but Americans currently aren't admitted there.

In addition to the standard jugglers, trapeze artists, etc., there is priceless bit by a clown done entirely in pantomime. Dressed up as a movie director, he grabs two volunteers from the crowd (I later learn they are setups) and instructs them on how to perform a scene in his martial arts film. One puts on a white taekwondo outfit. The other is given a white head scarf with a red sun on it, a long black wig, a mustache, and a black outfit. The audience howls with laughter at this Japanese caricature, and of course the scene ends with him being humiliated by several kicks from his opponent.

There are many rumors about why the hotel was never finished, including that the elevator shafts were built crooked. Concrete heats and distorts as it sets, and only recently has its use been perfected in the construction of tall skyscrapers. It seems foolhardy for the DPRK to have opted for concrete instead of steel back in the 1980s. But even more foolhardy is the notion of building a 3,000-room hotel in a city which gets so few visitors. And I wonder how a government that can't pull this off could be capable of building nuclear weapons.

Out of politeness none of us asks about the building, but to my surprise Dak-Ho brings it up himself. He tells us that the construction materials were being provided by fellow communist countries. When communism ended in eastern Europe in 1989, that cut off the supply of those materials to the DPRK, and "due to U.S. economic sanctions, we could not continue." It is one of several times that he will tell us of how U.S. policies have hurt his country. Even the DPRK's recent floods are "a result of global warming" and I'm pretty sure I know which country the North Koreans blame most for that.

The name says it all. The Korean War, which Americans consider to have ended in a draw, is portrayed by the North Koreans as a great victory. As we hear them describe themselves as a technologically inferior country, I'm reminded of Rocky Balboa's first bout with Apollo Creed, where he is technically the loser but nonetheless achieves a moral victory. As far as the North Koreans are concerned, their failure to conquer and hold the southern half of the peninsula is secondary to the fact that they "went the distance" with the U.S.

Everything we're told underscores the notion of North Korea as courageous underdog. We learn about when Kim Il-Sung told his pilots that the North Korean planes clearly were not as fast as the American ones, and that the North Korean pilots should therefore not attempt to chase the Americans from behind but instead should engage them head-on. We're shown the stump of a tree that was said to have hidden revolutionary fighters from the view of U.S. airplanes until the Americans finally destroyed it. We see an array of U.S. military equipment, planes and vehicles that the North Koreans captured. One plane we're told was shot down by a unit of women using only small arms fire.

Sunday is the one day a week that North Koreans don't have to work. In the beautiful Moran Hill Park we see a number of amateur artists painting nature scenes. We pass by a circle of standing men and seated women. The men have stripped down to their undershirts and are clapping and singing. They've obviously had a few beers and are having a very good time of it. Our guides suggest we should not photograph this scene.

At the top of the hill we come to a wooden pavilion where people dressed more formally are folk dancing. Before I know it, an older women in a green silk dress has grabbed my hand and is dancing with me. Other members of our group are grabbed as well. She discreetly holds up four fingers which, it turns out, means I am to twirl her around four times. It's then her turn to twirl me four times and, given the nearly two foot difference in our height, this gets a lot of laughs from the onlookers. Having come into the country expecting suspicion of foreigners, this unscripted show of friendship makes a big impression upon me. But in the back of my mind I wonder, would they still have done it if they knew we were Americans?

We're taken into a subway station. Everyone is coming or going except one woman in rags, standing like a silent statue tucked into a corner. None of the locals pay any attention to her. I'm so used to seeing homeless people back home, it takes a moment for this to register with me. This is exactly one of those "embarrassing to the regime" photos I'd been warned not to take. I have a brief chance to get a snapshot of this helpless soul without being noticed, but I wait too long. For the rest of the trip I will kick myself for missing out on the one truly important photo opportunity.

Our group gets on a subway car and stands for the ride. An older North Korean man offers me his seat. I know the proper thing is to politely refuse. But I am not going to pass up my one opportunity to sit next to a North Korean on a subway car. And sure enough, as soon as I sit next to a young couple, the woman asks me in English, "Where are you from?" I tell her "the United States." She seems puzzled. She looks at her husband. "Where?" "United States of America." I'm tempted to add "the imperialist bastards" as I know this is our nickname in the DPRK. She and her husband discuss my response. He seems to understand me but she seems skeptical. "Say again, where are you from?"

I'm getting a bit nervous but trying my best to make a good impression because I'm realizing she's never met one of us before. "United States of America." I can see from her face that she finally gets it. She seems nervous now too. "Where are you staying?" "Yanggakdo Hotel" "Ah yes!" She thinks about what to say next. "I hope you have a good day in Pyongyang!" A few simple words from a North Korean making an effort to reach out to me even after learning where I'm from - this is why I came to North Korea and this is what I was hoping to find. Our train is pulling into the next station and it's already time to shake hands and say goodbye.

Hyun is very polite and professional. He inspires enough confidence that when he draws us water from a well and assures us it's safe to drink, we do so. When we first meet, our tour company rep mentions that some North Korean guides don't like to lead American groups and asks him how he feels about this. He says he doesn't mind. What else can he say, I wonder, knowing that I'm listening in? But by the end of the trip I become convinced he really feels this way.

At the karaoke bar we learn that he used to manage a sports hall. "So what made you change professions?" someone asks. He gives a long answer about how his parents are getting old and he will have to look after them. Here we go again, he's changing the subject because this is a sensitive question. "So how did your need to look after your parents cause you to become a tour guide?" He stares back blankly and shakes his head, pretending not to understand the question. And we all finally get it - he can't answer. He's got the same puzzled look on his face as that of another guide in the National Geographic documentary Inside North Korea, when asked by journalist Lisa Ling "Does Kim Jong-Il ever makes mistakes?"

We're informed that the North Koreans are this year for the first time ever permitting Americans to visit the Kumsusan Palace mausoleum where the Great Leader Kim Il-Sung's body lies in state. The tour company rep warns us that in their "holiest of holies" the North Koreans will not tolerate the slightest show of disrespect. For those who didn't pack formal wear, he has brought along a bag of second-hand ties. One member from our group adds the following insight: we should realize that a visit to the remains of Kim Il-Sung are "as sacred to the North Koreans as a visit to the bones of Jesus would be to Christians." It takes me a few moments to realize he's being serious.

Unlike the more mundane tombs of Mao and Lenin where visitors have sneaked photographs, this is perhaps the only tourist spot in the world that has never been photographed. We're told to give up our cameras as well as all metal objects, including ball point pens. We go through a metal detector and are instructed to stand still on a conveyor belt that guides us alongside a large black box. We're given no indication of what's going on, but I can only assume my body is now being blasted with x-rays. We walk through a small chamber where puffs of air shoot at us from all directions. Our best guess is that it's a bomb-sniffing device. We step onto rotating brushes that clean the soles of our shoes. We walk past a large, porcelain-like statue of the Great Leader. We go up and down escalators and stand on numerous moving walkways. Recorded patriotic orchestral music plays continuously.

Most moving walkways zip along at a decent pace, but I expect these are deliberately slow because the long journey only heightens the drama and promotes a quiet, reflective mood. Departing North Korean pilgrims move past us on a parallel walkway going the opposite direction. It's hard to describe their expressions - somber, perhaps a bit puzzled by our presence, reluctant to make eye contact but also a bit curious. With our oddly-matched ties, corduroy pants, and sneakers, we are quite a contrast to the dressed-up North Koreans. Having been told how superior their country is to the rest of the world, they are perhaps now pitying us poor foreigners who can't afford any better clothes.

We'd earlier been told to bow four times, once at each side of the Great Leader's casket. But later we were told not to bow at his head. We finally reach our destination, a large square room clad in gray and white marble. By lifting his arm up and down, a soldier divides our line into groups of four and indicates when the next group is to make its approach. The Great Leader's face, under a plate of glass, is saturated with a bright spotlight. As our group walks around his casket, bowing at each side, we reach his head. One of my fellow travelers worries I've forgotten the change in instructions and frantically whispers "Don't bow! Don't bow!"

We exit into a large hall which displays the hundreds of medals and awards bestowed upon Kim Il-Sung that, to North Koreans, are an indication of just how greatly admired this man is around the world. Many of the honors are from communist-era governments. Two catch my eye. A Japanese metal plaque saying "World Peace Day" or something similar has nothing to indicate it was specifically awarded to Kim Il-Sung. Then there's the award from the U.S.'s "Kensington University." A google search will later indicate that this was a Glendale, California diploma mill shut down by court order in 2003.

We exit into another large room and are given personal English-language audio devices where a narrator, in hyper-dramatic voice, tells us "The death of President Kim Il-Sung struck the hearts of the Korean people like a thunderbolt!" Uniformed high school children stand in formation while a woman, choked with emotion, tells them the same story in Korean. Several of the kids are in tears.

After an equally long journey back, we are finally outside. We pass a line of stone-faced North Koreans waiting to enter. One older American woman decides to walk over to an older North Korean woman, embrace her, and kiss her on each cheek. I cringe at what I assume is a terrible faux pas - because North Koreans aren't exactly touchy-feely, because they're not comfortable with foreigners, but most of all because her gesture seems so at odds with their somber mood. So I'm surprised to see the North Korean women oohing and aahing in delight over this spontaneous show of affection. As we go farther down the line, the American woman repeats the gesture and gets the same warm response. I stand corrected.

To my surprise, even after a very long day of sightseeing our guides are happy to join us for drinks and karaoke at the hotel. That is until one of Dak-Ho's "girlfriends" shows up, at which point he moves off to another table and acts like he doesn't know us.

Most of the songs on the screen are famous Western pop songs - "Country Roads," "Bohemian Rhapsody," "How Deep Is Your Love?" As I'd heard about North Koreans even being imprisoned for singing foreign pop tunes, I'm surprised to find our guides know a lot of these melodies quite well. We have some conversations about the songs themselves. For instance, our guides seem interested to learn the meaning of the song "Ebony and Ivory" - it's more than just a song extolling the virtues of the materials ebony and ivory! When a Michael Jackson song comes up, our guides already know all about the troubles he's had with young boys and that he's living somewhere in the Middle East.

Hyun skillfully and expressively sings a tune in Korean. We clap, and he tells us it is a song is about the people's love for General Kim Jong-Il. Two songs our guides seem especially fond of are "Edelweiss" from The Sound of Music and "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic. Speaking of which, they point out that the ship sank on April 15, 1912 - "the very same day our Great Leader Kim Il-Sung was born. On one side of the earth things went down, on the other side they went up." And so the cosmic equilibrium was maintained.

On the last night, around 1:00 am everyone except me and Chul-Moo has left. I go to the bar to settle my tab when they inform me that no one else in the bar paid for their drinks or for the 100 songs they claim we listened to. As the last person to leave, I will have to pay for everyone. I'm now getting a better sense of the North Korean notion of collective responsibility. I try to explain that I am happy to pay for what I ordered - two beers and two songs, but nothing more. I'm a bit worried how this is going to turn out. Earlier a tourist, after learning his father had suddenly died, made a phone call back home, only to be told the international call would cost him $500. Our discussion is polite, but they are insistent. I guess having staked out a position, they would lose face by backing down now. And I'm having foolish thoughts: if they threaten me that I can't leave the country until I pay, maybe this is a way I can extend my stay and see more.

Then Chul-Moo tells me it's time for us to go. He probably realizes this is an argument I'm not going to win. But I don't want to be the Ugly American who walks out on a bill. Chul-Moo finally puts his hands on my back and gently pushes me out the door. The people behind the bar say nothing. Chul-Moo is the last person I expected to take my side in a dispute with a fellow North Korean. The entire evening ends up costing me nothing.

We are accompanied on all our excursions by a North Korean man with a video camera, and on our final night he shows us a few excerpts of the video disc he wants to sell us of the trip. There is a collective groan when we realize that he videotaped us bowing to the statue of the Great Leader. Not to mention a close-up of me laying flowers at his feet. If any of us had hopes of someday running for political office, these few seconds of footage have forever dashed them. Now every time I show this to someone, I will have to go into a long explanation about how I'm not a traitor to my country.

Amusing to me is that our humble photographer certainly believed he was doing us a big favor by memorializing this special moment for us. Anyway, after returning home I will find a youtube clip from another tour group's video and shake my head in disgust - their bow was much lamer than ours.

To my surprise, on the flight back to Beijing I'm seated next to two North Koreans. I start fiddling with my iPod to see if it will pique their interest, but they don't seem to notice. When disembarking from the plane, the thirty or so North Korean passengers cluster in a group away from everyone else.

I've heard people say that as North Koreans become exposed to the economic development in China, they will come to realize that their country is backwards and inferior. But my one day in Beijing makes me wonder. I am followed by a man for an entire block offering to set me up with a prostitute. Outside the Forbidden City, in the span of thirty minutes two different locals pretend to engage me in friendly conversation as part of the infamous "tea house scam" intended lighten my wallet by a hundred dollars. When one of my fellow returning tourists questions the cab driver as to why the fare he's asking for is higher than what it says on the meter, he responds by driving off with the man's luggage. At Beijing International, an airport employee gives me directions and then suggests I give him a tip. All I can think to myself is that this stuff doesn't happen in Pyongyang.

From inside the bubble of a tour group it's easy to fall in love with North Korea. Entire sections of the country, not to mention its concentration camps, are off limits. Entire topics of conversation are taboo. And so I like what I see because I've been seeing through their filter. I like not having to worry about the hotel maid stealing my wallet. I like streets without a scrap of litter on them. I enjoy the civility people accord each other in public spaces. The ubiquitous monuments and murals to Kim Il-Sung are frankly a lot more appealing than the wall-to-wall advertising back home. So I think I can understand how people from Pyongyang visiting Beijing could see the place, not as modern and prosperous, but as chaotic and decadent. They may be about as impressed with it as an Amish person with a Las Vegas casino.

As the other trainee guide, Iseul's personality is the opposite of Chul-Moo's. He's looks barely 20 and is completely comfortable in his own skin. I ask him how long he's been doing this. With a broad grin showing off his perfectly aligned teeth he says "This is my first year doing this. I'm a rookie!" He and I go bowling, and never did I imagine my trip would include high-fiving a North Korean after getting a strike. "Shit!" Iseul has just bowled a gutter ball, and I'm finding out that not all of his English has been learned at language school.

I know how important family is in North Korea, so my first question is about his parents. "My mother died eight years ago." His relaxed smile seems to say don't pity me. Iseul still has a compulsory five-year military stint which he will begin in a few years. I tell him I have a nephew who recently joined the U.S. Army. "What about Iraq?" He seems genuinely worried from my nephew's safety. He knows the war is currently unpopular in the U.S. I tell him that "In 2009 we will get a new president and our Iraq policy may change." That I'm so sure we're getting a new leader seems to surprise him.

When I tell him I had to reschedule my jury duty to accommodate the trip, he seems quite interested in knowing more about the American jury system. To my surprise, he's not only seen family movies like The Lion King but also the R-rated legal thriller The Firm. "Yes, with Tom Cruise" he says knowingly. We pass a multi-story building in Pyongyang and he tells me "that's where we do animation - just like your Walt Disney studios."

He wants to know, was The Sound of Music a British or American film? He's heard Beethoven's Fifth Symphony and has been told that the four notes that open it represent fate or death knocking at the door. But he says he still doesn't get what the music is saying. I suggest it doesn't mean anything at all, that music just exists in its own separate world. He looks at me quite skeptically. I can only guess that all the art and music his country produces is so infused with Juche and worship of the Great Leader that the very idea of art lacking an ideological underpinning is alien to him.

I ask about the floods that hit the DPRK in 2006. He doesn't seem to eager to talk about it, so I change the subject to California earthquakes. And I ask whether Korea gets earthquakes. "Not many. I think what happens is when the earthquakes come in from the east, they hit Japan and Japan absorbs the shock, and so Korea is protected. But I don't know, that's just my guess." I resist the temptation to explain how tectonic plates work, and in hindsight I'm glad I did. He's improvised a theory of his own - he's a free thinker rather than someone who parrots what he's been told. And he's casually admitted to a foreigner he could be wrong in a country where that just isn't done. Though technically incorrect, his earthquake comment is the most remarkable thing any North Korean has said to me.

As we go to the airport, I overhear Iseul mention he has e-mail. I hand him a pen so he can write down his address, but he hands it back apologetically. "My e-mail only works within the DPRK." As we say our goodbyes, Iseul tells us that we should be sure to come back and visit the DPRK again some day. One of us tells him "We've visited you. Now it's your turn to visit us in America." Ever-friendly, Iseul nods and smiles. And I suddenly find myself becoming very sad. Because all of us know this will never happen, and none of us will ever again see this remarkable young person who gives me reason to hope for North Korea's future.

After returning to the U.S. I find someone who will be going to Pyongyang later in the year. I give him some classical and pop CD's along with a letter and some photos of the trip, which he promises to smuggle in and deliver to Iseul someday.