Traveling around Uzbekistan

I used to think seminary education was all dusty manuscripts and silent prayer. Then I spent three weeks in Khiva, Uzbekistan, walking through the remnants

I used to think basket weaving was just basket weaving. Then I spent three weeks in Uzbekistan’s Fergana Valley, watching an elderly woman named

I used to think ruins were supposed to feel ancient, you know, distant—like they belonged to some unreachable past. Then I stood in front of what’

The van lurched to a stop somewhere between Samarkand and what my guide kept calling “the real Uzbekistan,” and I realized I’

I used to think bookbinding was just about glue and thread until I held a 15th-century Uzbek manuscript in Tashkent. The weight surprised me first—heavier

I’ve walked through Tashkent three times now, and each visit leaves me more confused about what this city actually is. The thing about Tashkent—and

I used to think artisan workshops were just tourist traps—you know, places where they demonstrate ancient crafts for ten minutes then usher you into an

I used to think oak was just oak. But then I spent three weeks in Uzbekistan’s Fergana Valley watching a seventy-two-year-old craftsman named Aziz

Navoi isn’t what you’d call picturesque. I guess I expected something different when I first heard about this place—maybe some Soviet-era grandeur

I used to think acorns were just, you know, squirrel food. Turns out—and I’m still processing this myself—in the valleys of Uzbekistan’