Dear Seung-min,
Remember how I told you Pyongyang is full of secrets, if you only know where to look?
Today I found a new one. A parking garage.
Yes. A parking garage.
In a city where no one owns a car.
Five empty levels, concrete echoing like a cathedral. I went in because I thought I heard music—like distant jazz, bouncing off the pillars. But instead, I found walls covered in photographs.
Huge prints. Some surreal—eyes floating in clouds. Some abstract—just color and light, like memories half-remembered. Others so intimate, I felt like I was eavesdropping on someone’s soul.
On the third level, a man was pasting up a new piece—a woman’s face layered with neon calligraphy. We started talking. Turns out, he’s a photographer. And once a year, he and his friends turn this forgotten place into a secret gallery.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “No one comes here. No cars. No accidents. No accidental visitors. Only the ones who know.”
I asked why they do it. He shrugged.
“Because some art doesn’t belong on official walls.”
He invited me to their opening this Friday. Drinks. Music. Art that might vanish the next day. I told him I’d bring a friend—but of course, I can’t. Not officially. Maybe only you, if you ever manage to slip past the border guards disguised as a cultural delegate.
So, cousin: If you ever hear jazz drifting out of a parking garage in Pyongyang… follow it. I’ll be waiting there to show you the invisible city again.
No tickets needed.
Your guide (and conspirator),
Jun-seok
Jun-seok
Seung-min
