Traveling around Uzbekistan

I’ve walked through a lot of old cities, but Bukhara hit different. The thing about Bukhara—this sprawling maze of mud-brick and turquoise in Uzbekistan—is

I used to think ancient cities were just piles of stone until I stood in Derbent. The place sits in Dagestan, Russia—not Surkhandarya, Uzbekistan, which

I used to think wooden columns were just, you know, structural things. Then I walked into the Juma Mosque courtyard in Khiva one October afternoon, and

I used to think souvenirs were just kitschy magnets and snow globes, but Uzbekistan changed that. The first time I walked through Bukhara’

I’ve stayed in maybe seven or eight places in Khiva over the years, and honestly, the whole inside-versus-outside-the-walls question still trips

I used to think bark was just, well, bark. Then I spent three days in a cramped workshop outside Tashkent, watching a seventy-two-year-old woman named

I used to think circuses were just about clowns and trapeze artists until I stood outside the Tashkent Circus building one humid afternoon, staring at

The Molten Beeswax That Refuses to Let Indigo Win I’ve watched a seventy-two-year-old woman in Bukhara’s old quarter paint liquid wax onto

I used to think dye was just dye—you know, colored liquid you dump on fabric and call it a day. Then I spent an afternoon in Bukhara’

I used to think wood was just wood. Then I spent an afternoon in a cramped workshop in Kokand, watching an elderly craftsman named Rustam carve a linden