Day No. 1 Chorsu Bazaar

Approaching Chorsu Bazaar, you can already see those blue halos rising from the streets like mountains. The sun bears down, the light is impossibly bright—this seems to be the first thing you adjust to on your first day in Uzbekistan.

The bazaar itself is divided into sections: spices, nuts, meat, fruits, vegetables. The smell of spices reaches you first—the stalls unfold before you in an extraordinary palette of textures and colors: earthy reds, deep ochres, and pale greens—all open to the air. I noticed handmade spice sets, dozens of varieties arranged together.

You lift your head, and there they are—those endless floral ornaments: on the facades of buildings, tucked into a corner of an archway, pressed into a tile you almost walked past. Wherever you look in Tashkent, some small detail is waiting to be found. And the more you find, the more you notice. The more you notice, the more the city stops feeling foreign—until at some point, without quite realizing it, you feel that you belong here.

Every so often, someone would pass with a cart of flatbreads, pausing now and then to draw a small crowd before moving on. And so it continues, one cart after the next. The air is thick with the heavy scent of the Uzbek flatbread called non, which is traditionally baked in a tandoor oven. Depending on the ingredients, shape, and region, there are two main types of it: an obi-non—a regular, simple flatbread—and a patyr—a festive, richer bread. From the shape I can tell that today’s cart’s bread is specifically a patyr one. ”Next time I come, I'll learn how to bake them”, I think. I must remember to buy the carved wooden stamps for the patterns on the bread. Remember it too.

Outside, there's a plant section—entire rows of houseplants, and crowds of people. Everyone is going somewhere. A charming caravan of women in floral hijabs sweeps past. Men are rushing.

I wandered through the bazaar and stepped into a small local shop, where I bought a black-and-white embroidered Uzbek vest. The shop owner watched me with evident delight—and called over her son, whose clothing stall was next door. The two of them stood there together, watching each vest I hold up against myself, commenting quietly to each other. There was something hillarious and very tender about it: being dressed by a family, in a bazaar, in a city I have only just arrived in.

The mid-morning heat has been built by the time I left the bazaar, and turned toward the old city.

Kokaldash Madrasah

One of the most important historical schools of Islamic studies and a beautiful example of traditional brick architecture and blue majolica decoration. The central courtyard is peaceful, the facade is imposing. Since 1999, an Islamic educational institution under the Muslim Board of Uzbekistan has been operating in this building.

The grounds were full of people, and the sun was relentless—everyone was hot, though some sought shade, and some didn't seem to notice. One boy was running late for class and dashed past me so fast that I felt anxious on his behalf.

At the entrance, I was met by security guards. I asked them a few questions; they explained that classes were in session and that certain rooms were best left undisturbed. But there were other floors well worth visiting: the second floor belonged to masters of calligraphy, and the third one—to a souvenir shop.

Inside, I found a garden and the madrasah's buildings in that magical shade of blue. The richness of it was overwhelming: laughter, whisper drifting from half-open classroom doors, wind moving through tree branches, and then, somewhere beneath it all, a soft rustling sound I couldn't quite place. I looked toward the center of the garden and found it: a lamb tied to a tree, ears long and heavy, the unmistakable silhouette of a karakul, padding quietly through the grass. All of this may have been the most beautiful thing my eyes had ever prayed to catch.

I wandered, glancing into classrooms where lessons were underway. I caught the modest, courteous eyes of students. Some of the boys, whose classes hadn't yet started, were laughing, running, and jumping—and then very carefully, very gently, they would look up at me and the other tourists with shining eyes, seeming to blush before bursting into laughter again.

I moved on.

On the second floor, were the craftswomen. I was met by Islamic calligraphy of extraordinary refinement. Two women sat in a white room facing each other. The electricity had been cut that day, so both were working in the dimness, their phones propped up with flashlights aimed at their work. They seemed a little embarrassed by it, but I didn't linger—I looked, greeted them, and made my way up to the third floor.

On the third floor was a master of carved boxes and keepsakes. He showed me his remarkable creations; at one point he placed a delicate little box in my palm and said: open it. It was made with a lock designed so that only those who knows the secret—or the very clever—could figure it out. We laughed together, I said rahmat, and went on my way.

I walked out of the madrasah and let myself get a little lost in the surrounding streets—no map, no destination, just the neighborhood unfolding at its own pace. And something kept happening: every local I passed would look up, meet my eyes, and say welcome—sometimes in Russian, sometimes in English, as if the language didn't matter, only the meaning. 

At every opportunity, I stopped to buy fruits and vegetables—so vivid in flavor that I can barely remember tastes so rich and alive.

Café Dosan

Toward the end of the afternoon, I discovered Café Dosan (Yakub Kolas Street 6, @cafe_dosan)—a specialty coffee shop tucked behind trees in a quiet residential neighborhood, with a minimalist interior and a great bakery.

I spent the rest of that first day simply walking—no itinerary, no agenda, just the city, and everything it offered around the next corner.

Day No. 2

Rassvet (Chimkent Street 17, @rassvet.coffee.uz)

Specialty coffee, fresh-baked pastries, breakfast served until 4 p.m. What I loved most about about this place was who came through the door. Locals and foreigners, always a completely different mix—someone hunched over a laptop in the corner, someone else on the terrace with a friend, finishing a coffee and disappearing back into the city.

I came to Rassvet first thing—coffee, pastry, morning light through the window—and then set out for the Museum of Applied Arts.

Museum of Applied Arts

A completely singular place—carved wood, mosaic patterns, stained glass, painted ceilings—the abundance of color was breathtaking. You find yourself thinking, involuntarily: what a rich culture this is.

The museum holds exquisite examples of suzani embroidery, ceramics, wood and metalwork, and traditional silks. Every piece is the work of folk mastery. You could spend an entire day there, studying the miniature illustrations, the glazed pottery, the traditional robes (joma) and the embroidered skullcaps (doppi) that have been worn across Central Asia for centuries.

After the museum I found a chaikhana—a traditional teahouse—tucked inside the complex, and sat down on a supa, a wide low platform spread with cushions, the kind of seating that asks you to slow down and stay a while. I ordered Uzbek herbal tea and let everything I had seen slowly settle. I sat there thinking about how saturated I had become—how full my eyes were, how much had passed through them in just a few days. And how little most people from other countries know about any of this. How badly I wanted to show someone—everyone—everything I had seen here.

People here treat their heritage very tenderly—celebrating it in clothing, in architecture, in the way a room is put together. There is something delicate and deeply felt in it. They do not boast about their craft. They carry it with dignity, and they find ways to bring it into the present.

All these thoughts kept returning as the tea cooled in my hands.

Time moves differently in Tashkent—full and unhurried all at the same time—and before I understood how, it was already time to make my way to Samarkand. But first: I still needed a gift for my father.

I have hurried up to Kanishka (@kanishka_dsgn, Shota Rustaveli Street 39), one of Tashkent's most beloved local brands. They have been doing something quietly extraordinary for years: taking the visual language of Central Asia—ikat prints, suzani patterns, Uzbek ornament—and placing it onto entirely contemporary shapes. T-shirts, leather bags, backpacks, coats. No two pieces are identical.

Then I have headed to Samarkand.

Also in Tashkent

139 Documentary Center (Taras Shevchenko ko'chasi 8)

A cultural space close to the Museum of Applied Arts. The center regularly hosts independent film screenings, lectures, exhibitions, and public talks. Follow their Instagram for all the announcements.

Ilkhom Theatre (Pakhtakor Street 5)

It is one of the first professional independent theaters in the Soviet Union, founded in 1976 by a director Mark Weil and a group of graduates from the Tashkent Institute of Theater and Fine Arts. From its earliest days, Ilkhom formed itself as an ensemble of soloists capable of free improvisation and deep mutual understanding. All tickets are available on their website.

Republican Children's Library (47 Yakhyo Gulyamov Street, @acdflibrary)

More than a library—a public space that showcases the idea that culture should be alive and accessible. The building hosts master classes, reading clubs, a recording studio, fine arts workshops, and a digital professions lab. There is something quietly radical and caring more than ever about a children's institution this thoughtful and this open.