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 me up sometimes.
Here’s the thing: Ichon-Qala, the old walled city, feels like stepping into a different century—narrow lanes, tilework that catches light in ways modern paint never could, courtyards where you can hear absolutely nothing except maybe a distant call to prayer or someone’s grandmother arguing about bread prices. The hotels here are mostly converted madrassas or merchant houses, rooms built around those courtyards with carved wooden pillars that have been holding up ceilings since, I don’t know, the 1850s give or take. You wake up and you’re already inside the postcard, which sounds amazing until you realize your knees hurt from climbing stone stairs and the nearest ATM is a fifteen-minute walk through tourist crowds taking the exact same photo of Kalta Minor minaret. I used to think staying inside the walls was non-negotiable, the only way to really experience Khiva, but after my third visit I started wondering if I was just making things harder for myself.
Outside Ichon-Qala, in Dishan-Qala or the newer parts of town, you get modern plumbing that actually works consistently, bigger rooms, sometimes even parking if you’ve rented a car to explore the Khorezm region. The trade-off is obvious: you’re not waking up to that magical timelessness, you’re in a regular hotel that could be anywhere in Uzbekistan.
The Old Town Hotels That Actually Deliver on the Fantasy (Mostly)
Orient Star Khiva sits in a restored 19th-century complex, and I’ll admit the rooms surprised me—higher ceilings than I expected, decent air conditioning, staff who seemed genuinely happy to recommend the weird little museum nobody visits. Breakfast happened on a rooftop terrace where you could see the Kalta Minor’s turquoise tiles without fighting through selfie-stick wielders, which felt like a minor miracle. But the shower pressure was, let’s say, optimistic, and the walls were thin enough that I could track my neighbor’s entire phone conversation with someone named Rustam about a delayed shipment of melons. Still, walking out your door at 6 AM when the light hits the madrassas just right and the lanes are empty—that’s worth some plumbing compromises, I guess.
Zarafshon Boutique Hotel does the luxury thing better if you’ve got the budget. Underfloor heating in winter, which matters more than tourists realize when January temperatures drop and those beautiful stone buildings turn into elegant refrigerators. The downside? It’s popular, so you’re sharing that atmospheric courtyard with a lot of other people chasing the same experience.
Definitely worth mentioning: Rustam and Zukhra’s guesthouse isn’t fancy, barely qualifies as a hotel really, but Zukhra cooks these insane breakings with fresh lepyoshka and homemade jam that tastes like apricots and maybe cardamom, I could never quite identify all the flavors. Rustam once spent an hour explaining the difference between Khivan and Bukharan woodcarving styles using salt shakers as props, which was either fascinating or deeply odd depending on how much tea you’d had.
Outside the Walls Where Modernity Makes Its Quiet Argument
Arkanchi Hotel sits maybe ten minutes’ walk from the west gate, far enough that the atmosphere shifts but close enough that you’re not commuting to history. The rooms are straightforward—clean, boring, functional in that way that lets you stop thinking about your accomodations and focus on why you came to Khiva in the first place. There’s a decent restaurant, reliable WiFi, and nobody’s trying to sell you an experience beyond a comfortable bed and hot water that doesn’t require negotiation with ancient pipes. I stayed there once when everything inside Ichon-Qala was booked during Navruz, and honestly? I slept better. Woke up less charmed but more rested, which is its own kind of valuable.
Turns out the question isn’t really where you should stay but what you’re willing to trade. Authenticity versus convenience. Atmosphere versus amenities. That perfect Instagram shot from your window versus a shower that doesn’t require strategic timing and optimism.
What Nobody Tells You Until You’ve Already Booked
Summer heat inside those thick walls gets oppressive in ways that catch people off guard—the stone holds temperature like a grudge, and air conditioning fights a losing battle against architecture designed for a different era’s climate logic. Winter’s almost worse: romantic right up until you’re layering sweaters under your coat to eat breakfast. The hotels outside Ichon-Qala have boring modern HVAC systems that just work, which sounds unromantic until you’re actually cold or actually sweating. Also, luggage. Cobblestones and wheeled suitcases are enemies, and if your hotel’s down some narrow lane, you’re carrying everything the last hundred meters while tourists photograph you struggling, which is humbling in ways travel guides don’t prepare you for. I guess it builds character or something, though mostly it just builds resentment toward overpacking. Anyway, prices fluctuate wildly depending on season and whether there’s some festival you didn’t know about, so booking ahead matters more than I initially thought it would. That whole “just show up and find something charming” approach works until it spectacularly doesn’t and you’re stuck in a guesthouse where the charming part is debatable and the bedbugs are not.
