Bukhara, Uzbekistan Travel Diaries: Photos and Stories For a Virtual Vacation

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With 15 years of international travel experience, it is hard to pick a favorite destination. Yet, one place always lingers on the tip of my tongue and at the top of my mind as a favorite: Uzbekistan. I traveled there at a time when travel was almost starting to feel like a common occurrence for me. I say this, very aware of my privilege in this statement, but most frequent travelers can relate; there comes a time when our travels feel a bit comfortable and mundane.

After moving to Germany and settling in for about five years, my travels around Europe were frequent but not as enriching as my early days of travel. Then, I went to Uzbekistan.

My partner arrived as one of the Australian Passport holders to enter with visa-free restrictions in early 2019. I love to travel in a way I wasn’t sure I would ever truly feel again. Uzbekistan is incredible, with amazing people, delicious food, and mind-blowing architecture.

Not long after my trip to Uzbekistan, the first cases of COVID began to emerge. I never properly wrote about my travels in Uzbekistan as the travel industry came to a screeching halt. During this time, I hope to inspire future visits to Bukhara and Uzbekistan by sharing travel stories and photos from one of my favorite countries.

Arrival in Bukhara

The high-speed and modern train squealed to a stop. Darkness engulfed us as we stepped out into the warm, dry air. The train station, antiquated with chipped dusty tiles and grand arches, nodded to Bukhara’s rich history and Silk Road charm.

Passengers stumbled out of the luxury cabins onto the platform, disrupting the night. A few groggy travelers shuffled their feet, boarding the train to replace those leaving before the train zoomed off to its next destination.

Locals gathered their belongings and stray family members, and they walked off to the side of the station, casting shadows under harsh floodlights. We followed blindly because that seemed like our best option.

On the other side of the iron-wrought gates, we were swallowed by a mass of people. As soon as the taxi drivers noticed two foreigners, they began to fight their way to offer us a ride into the city. Each one listened to the offers made before them, testing the limits to see how much we would pay for a trip. “Five USD, it is an excellent deal.” We were not fooled.

We had done our research and wouldn’t pay more than a dollar. Sticking to the standard price prevents the cost from increasing for locals or taxi drivers, favoring travelers. As early travelers to a country just opening for tourism, we took our role in setting the tone for responsible travel very seriously.

Thankfully, Ganesh knows how to handle these situations. After spending more than a year living in SE Asia and traveling India with his bartering whizz of a grandmother, he was a pro. On the other hand, I was the deadweight, pulling the team down.

Suddenly anxious in the crowd, I bit at almost any offer that came our way. They could sense it, too, like predators isolating the weak. I finally put my head down and hurried along to where Ganesh was negotiating a fair deal. He would never stand to be ripped off, and he was willing to isolate me to make his point to the driver and me.

In Uzbekistan, a newly formed tourist police closely monitor taxis ripping off foreigners and generally keep an eye on things to ensure the safety of travelers. We saw them actively patrolling in Tashkent and other areas, but in moments of chaos, such as a train arrival, some locals still try to push their luck. Finally, we agreed with the driver and began the journey to our hotel.

As we pulled into a cul-de-sac in downtown Bukhara, we reached the cusp of the road and the pedestrian-only zone. Beautiful ancient buildings surrounded us, lit by carefully placed floodlights. The brick domes of old bazaars were split down the middle, with harsh light on one side and darkness on the other.

I could barely make out the tiles that would soon glitter with daybreak on the arches of madrassahs towering in the distance. I was excited about tomorrow. We paid our taxi driver with local currency and followed his directions down an old cobbled road, turning right down an alley before we came to our hotel.

Two men greeted us at the counter. The rest of the hotel was dark and quiet. We handed the passports over to the hotel employees. They would begin the process of copying our passports and filling out government forms to inform the Uzbek government where we stayed each night while in the country.

Several years ago, you would have had to present these forms while leaving the country. This is no longer strictly enforced because Uzbekistan is finally emerging from an isolated period, welcoming tourists with fewer restrictions. However, it is still a hotel regulation to complete these forms.

Just weeks before we arrived, Australians no longer had to apply for a visa, and we assume Ganesh was one of the first few to use the no-visa policy. People from the U.S. still needed a visa, so I also handed that over. 

We were given our key, a heavy metal object we would hand over whenever we left the hotel. To reach our room, we exited the side of the hotel to an outdoor courtyard and crossed through to a row of rooms. The urge to collapse into the luxurious bed was intense since we had been up since we landed in Tashkent at 5 a.m., but our stomachs growled even louder, and we knew we had to venture out and find food. 

After getting a recommendation for late-night eats, we ventured out – hopeful of finding vegetarian food. Just up the road from our hotel on the edge of the town, we found a cozy terrace restaurant with colorful, patterned curtains loosely blowing in the wind. I could see the faces of the servers light up as soon as it was clear we were headed in their direction.

They warmly welcomed us with an eager conversation, asking where we were from and how we had come to visit Uzbekistan. We sat at the edge of the terrace, with the hot night air burning our cheeks, but the wind was not too far behind to cool them.

Our servers pointed to their huge section of vegetarian food and helped us navigate the menu. Relieved to not be stuck eating horse meat or soggy veggies, we eagerly ordered eggplant rolls, pumpkin dumplings, Uzbek bread, pumpkin samosas, and local beer. The cold beer was a welcome escape from the long transit day in the sun. With each sip, we sank a little deeper into the colorful bench seats and soaked in the reality of where we were. We would return to this restaurant a few times, befriending the owners. 

Hot Tea, Makes You Sweat, But Keeps You Cool

The thick curtains blocked out the upcoming sun, so we managed to sleep in a bit later than we hoped. But, after rubbing the sleep from our eyes, we left our room and found the breakfast spot at our hotel. Again, there were plenty of vegetarian options among the platters of fruit, veggies, and the omelet station. Having never thought about what Uzbek food was like, I was pleasantly surprised by the variety and healthy options each time I ate.

Based on every blog and guidebook I read, I was fully prepared to eat meat for every meal, whether I ordered it or not. Servers fussed over us every minute, topping off our juice or asking us to eat more food. After navigating awkward encounters and finally turning down hospitality, we eagerly departed to start our first day in Bukhara. 

Our first order of business was to find a spot for tea. One of the top recommendations for things to do in Bukhara and Uzbekistan is to enjoy the tea culture. We meandered to one of the city’s centers, the Lab-in Hauz, or the gathering place around the pond.

Man-made ponds, such as this, were once a central vein in Uzbeki life. These ponds provided water and a cool place to relax. Most of them were removed by the Soviets, but you can still see empty depressions with buildings surrounding them strewn throughout the city – husks of the city’s former glory days. Lab-in Hauz is one of the only remaining ponds, providing a popular place to relax and socialize.

The green water shimmered in the sunlight as a fountain jet shot a stream of water into the air. Mist droplets rained down on those around the pond, providing relief from the heat. Stepping down into the upper part of the pond’s depression, we walked around, passing ice cream carts, bronze flower pots, and statues.

Little effort had been made to keep the flowers alive in the extreme heat, but the flower pots were beautifully crafted metalwork. They were large half-circles with five large pots perched along the arch. Flowers and intricate lacework were Carved into the iron, making them look delicate yet sturdy. Accompanying them were statues and images of desert animals. It felt like we came upon a true oasis in a scorching desert. 

We settled at one of the outdoor two-person tables closest to the water’s edge and ordered tea. A father and his five children sat at a large table next to us. In the center of the table, a massive platter of meat, dwarfing the children, was surrounded by fresh bread, cola, and tea. The youngest girl with greasy fingers grabbed a chunk of meat off the platter while intensely staring at us. She listened carefully to the foreign language we spoke. Many children were starting to learn English in the region as their government became more progressive, and it was exciting to hear us speak. Her father looked at us and gave us a warm smile, which we returned just as the tea showed up.

The sun had burned off all the morning air and was now boring down on our heads. I looked down at the steaming hot tea and then around the other tables. Yes, everyone was drinking tea in this heat.

Well, when in Uzbekistan. As soon as we took the first sip, sweat from our hairline formed and dripped into our eyes. Suddenly, a breeze brushed against our moist foreheads, making the breeze cool. Huh, I thought. I supposed that was the point of drinking hot tea in hot weather: you sweat, and then the wind does a more straightforward job of cooling you off. It worked, but not enough to stop me from ordering ice cream after the tea. 

Saying goodbye to the family, making progress on their meat platter, we ventured off, excited to explore Bukhara. Even without a purpose or direction, we immediately stumbled on our first architectural wonder, the Nadir Divan-Begi Madrasah.

A Journey Through History & Architectural Wonders

Madrasah is the Arabic word for a school or an education center. They once filled the Silk Road as ideas and thoughts in science, astronomy, maths, and culture journeyed from city to city. Most of our astrological and mathematical principles come from the Arabic culture but have been whitewashed over the years.

The entrance is a massive rectangular pillar with ornate arches that decrease in size until a regular human-size wooden arched door appears. On either side of the entrance, two rows of arches are stacked on each other.

Every free space is covered in striking blues, greens, oranges, and gold tiles. The building is covered with images such as suns, moons, birds, and decorative patterns; beautiful Islamic script flows intricately between the motifs. At the top of the Nadir Divan-Begi entrance, two large birds face the sun, with their long tail feathers streaming out behind them. 

As we approached, a group of kids giggled and waved at us. Ganesh continued on his way, snapping photos of the stunning building. I stopped and talked to the kids, who spoke a bit of English, as they were proud to be learning it in school. We exchanged names, and I told them a bit about where I was from before trotting off to find Ganesh. The kids remembered my name, and for the rest of the day, I would hear, “SUSANNA!” shouted from a distance, knowing it was them.

Once I met up with Ganesh, we were approached by people selling postcards and other items. English speakers are so rare in Uzbekistan that most try speaking French, Mandarin, Spanish, Japanese, or German before attempting English. People who sell items on the street learn key phrases in each language.

Everyone thought Ganesh was from France – since they are such a diverse country, and most people assumed I was German or French – and indeed, no one expected us to be together or from Australia and the U.S. In the end, we used more German than English in Uzbekistan. 

After declining the cheap postcards, we entered the madrasah. The old wooden door was carved with star patterns and creaked with age. Inside was a wide-open space under the sun with a dirt floor.

The duplicate rows of arches we saw on the outside also surrounded us here. The second story historically provided room for students, but now it lies empty and crumbling. The open-air space was bustling, though, with artisans and craft workers. We perused the items, noting the quality of metal, wood, and ink craftwork we might want to return to buy.

Taking the Side Roads

Before visiting Bukhara, one of the best advice I received was to avoid the main streets and explore the side roads. So, we moved away from the central hub and ventured down the dusty roads.

They seemed empty and abandoned. Along the side streets away from the tiled architecture of the Silk Road, everything looked the same – a dusty brown color. Old brown houses were held up by wooden support beams covered in dust. We passed a small, simple mosque; a few individuals were hurrying inside so as not to be late for prayer, and then we were alone again. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of bright turquoise peeking out above a narrow, monotone alley. Instantly drawn to the color, we turned and headed straight for it. Standing alone in a dirty open space was a four-pillar structure. At the top of each pillar, a turquoise dome rested. It was a small and relatively simple structure compared to some madrasas, but it was lovely. 

The Chor Minor was an old gate for a madrasah. Each pillar has a different motif representing the four religions known in Central Asia at the time: Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, and Zoroastrianism.

One pillar had a fake stork nest on top, a common sight in many mosques, madrasas, bazaars, and structures. Storks were a familiar and regal bird in the area and often made nests on high structures. Sadly and somewhat oddly, we didn’t see any actual nests. It was almost as if the storks had long been gone, and the fake nests were an attempt to remember the days of rich biodiversity.

A woman was selling her wares out front, but we admired the building from a distance before moving on to our next destination, wherever that may be.

We continued our back-alley adventure. The roads seemed to become narrower and narrower, but they were still hauntingly quiet. A lone older man sitting against a cement wall flashed a golden-toothed smile at us, encouraging us to stop to talk to him.

He knew his geography well, naming all of Australia’s major cities when Ganesh told him he was Australian. When I told him I was from Alaska, his eyes lit up in awe. He wanted to talk to me to learn more about Alaska, but his English vocabulary was minimal. Instead, he just put his arms around his body, began to shiver, and exclaimed, “SNOW!” I laughed, saying, “Yes, Alaska is cold and snowy.”

After exhausting our hand gesture dictionary, we continued on our way, wishing him well.

Is Older Is Better?

Just as the street was barely wide enough for two people, and buildings seemed to crumble around us, we wondered if we were going the right way. Miraculously, a large truck came around the corner, swerved to avoid us, and rumbled along.

We stopped to marvel at how a car managed to fit down the road, but it reassured us we were not at a dead end. A few steps further, we stepped into the wide-open square. On either side of us were huge madrasahs, and ahead of us was a building with dozens of domes in various shapes and sizes, signaling a bazaar. 

We ventured left and headed toward one of the madrasahs. The colors were different from the typical shades of Islamic blue. Vibrant pinks, yellows, golds, and oranges adorned the tiles.

A half-hearted effort was being made to restore something nearing its end. The older parts were beautiful, and I admired this madrasah’s faded colors and shapes just as much as the vibrant new additions.

As if she read my mind, a local woman came out and began to talk to us about how their new president was undergoing a massive restoration project across Uzbekistan. She could not be unhappier with the project, saying, “Older is better, no?”

I had to disagree with her in some regard. Though I am not a local with personal insights, I think revitalization and restoration projects for cultural heritage sites are valuable as long as they consider the local population and don’t contribute to gentrification. However, this seemed like a monument receiving tender love and care.

She welcomed us into the madrasah, which was set up as part of the antique market and the museum. We paid her 5,000 UZS to enter the museum, just a tiny corner room. Our host excitedly told us to stare at the back wall as she turned off the lights. The sunlight streaming in took the shape of a turbaned man, a prominent historical figure. According to the woman, it was a serendipitous miracle that the sun shone in his likeness. 

I saw a few items in the old museum bazaar that I liked, but unfortunately, the prices were quite inflated, or I was receiving the foreigner price quote and wasn’t in the mood for haggling a simple bracelet down from 50 EUR.

We crossed the empty outdoor space to the other madrasah, which had not yet undergone any restoration. I could barely make out any faded colors in the ancient paint. Inside was a mostly abandoned courtyard with broken furniture and old rugs hanging in the corners. We found a hidden museum and paid 6,000 UZS to enter.

Ancient Islamic calligraphy covered old pots, broken tiles, and musty manuscripts. I stopped to think about how beautiful and lavish Arabic culture was during the days of the Silk Road and still is and how modern America’s Islamophobia taints opinions of it. 

Back in the outdoor square, we decided to head for the domed bazaar. The clever design provided us relief from the heat of the burning sun. The domed ceilings were designed to trap the rising hot air and release it outside through vents. The complex was vast, with dozens of storefronts, hidden nooks, and grand displays of goods. Many metal plates, hand-painted ceramics, tiles, scarves, and jewelry existed. I was so impressed that no one harassed us, so we could relax and shop at our own pace. 

The prices here were much more reasonable, and we picked up a few sustainable handicrafts souvenirs to take home.

We emerged into the blistering hot afternoon sun. It was getting too hot, and we still hadn’t seen the main sights, so we decided to head straight for them. This was much harder in theory, as our path was filled with fantastic architecture and open invites to drink iced coffee on a fan-cooled terrace.

I was thankful that I was able to wear a cool outfit. Uzbekistan was much more liberal than I anticipated. While I still wore modest clothing, it was ok to have some of my shoulders showing, and I didn’t need to cover up when entering buildings. Uzbekistan is a secular country. I never heard the call to prayer, as they were not allowed to blast it over the city. While traveling to Uzbekistan, my expectations seemed to be off repeatedly, as my perceptions changed to view it as an up-and-coming moderate country.

Onto the Grandest Sights

Lunch was another vegetarian success. We had what I can best describe as a cheese and tomato toastie wrapped in a local flatbread. Sipping coffee from an upper-floor cafe recommended by Lonely Planet, we also snacked on fresh tomatoes and pumpkin-stuffed dumplings.

Uzbek culture is so hospitable that even though vegetarianism as a dietary preference is an emerging concept, they will go out of their way to figure out what you need and make food for you. There are plenty of vegetarian options for traditional foods if you know what to look for. Read my survival guide for vegetarians in Central Asia.

We walked down increasingly grand pedestrian roads lined with simple but elegant brick architecture. In the distance, a substantial lone minaret appeared, accompanied by a blue dome that would occasionally pop up. With such amazing sights waiting ahead, it was easy to miss the beauty around us.

The sandy-colored bricks covered everything from the pathway to the towering walls. They were broken up only by simply designed blue tiles.

Everything seemed to be in such pristine condition that the dirt and grimness of overtourism had not yet reached its claws in this area. Part of me knew they were ready for tourism – the economy, the people, the infrastructure were prepared for the benefits tourism could bring– but part of me also hoped this place would never change.

Though that is a selfish thing, isn’t it? To want a place to be held back in time while the rest of the world moves forward.

Finally, we burst into the main square, Kalon Square, one of the most jaw-dropping areas I’ve ever been to.

Looking back, I realize it is unbelievable that I could travel to such a wonderful place. Being from Alaska, where most buildings were built in the 1970s or 80s on a budget and to withstand an earthquake, I was nearly moved to tears.

Even the whimsical castles of Germany looked barbaric compared to the beauty of Islamic architecture. 

To one side, the most beautiful madrasah loomed the Mir-i-Arab Madrasah. Behind the arch entrance, two turquoise domes dominated the skyline behind it. It was still in operation after all these years, and students came and went, talking with each other in excited tones.

We could not enter this madrasah, but its near-perfect condition forced me to crank my neck back to see the blooming domes of ceramic tiles and the archways that towered above me. 

On the other side, a stunning yet more understated mosque, the Kalon Mosque, stood with its door ajar. We peeked in and descended the stairs into the large courtyard in the middle. Instead of old furniture and crumbling tiles like many other courtyards, every corner was decorated with color and detail.

A lone tree stood in the middle next to what appeared to be an old well. A few German and French tourists were our only company as we ran down empty hallways inside the building and burst back into the courtyard, exploring every nook and cranny and taking in every fine detail of this masterful piece of art. 

We would return to this place twice, enjoying the quiet space and incredible architecture. A lone painter sat, capturing the space perfectly on their canvas as I frolicked around taking photos.

By this time, the heat was bearing down on us, and we decided to head back to the hotel to hydrate and rest.

Warm Bukhara Nights

We emerged again after taking a midday siesta to avoid the sweltering heat. A dusty pink hue appeared on the horizon, taking over the bright blue sky. We slowly walked back to the central square with the Kalon Mosque, taking everything in with new eyes as the changing light added complex dimensions to the architecture.

Eventually, we found a viewing tower on the outskirts of the city. It was a tourist trap because it charged 8 euros per person when most attractions cost us only about a euro or less. Willing to pay the tourist price this time, we climbed to the top anyway. The view looking out over Bukhara as the golden light faded was magical. The colorful ceramic domes of the madrasah towered over the more natural brick and cement buildings.

It was almost time for sunset, and I had picked out a rooftop bar near the main square. It was calling our name. Just off a small alley to the side of Kalon Square, we entered a restaurant and climbed three narrow metal spiral stairs until we emerged under the near-dusk sky.

With a round of cocktails, it was time to watch the show.

With every passing minute, as the air got a little cooler and the sun lowered, more people began to emerge. The city seemed to come alive for the first time since we arrived in Bukhara. Couples took evening walks hand in hand, focused on each other, and oblivious to the architectural grandeur as a backdrop. Parents chased after kids, wobbling on colorful bikes. Teenagers filmed parkour action videos on the stairs of the grand buildings. A photographer with a spotlight trailed behind a couple on their engagement shoots.

Of course, we were some of the only people crazy enough to saunter about in the middle of a summer Sunday, which is why it was so empty.

Darkness engulfed the sky, and the street lights and those shining on the buildings were all that remained.

Buzzed on cocktails, we found a restaurant with an open-sky terrace that served vegetarian Laghman. Laghman is a Central Asian dish with noodles cooked in fat with horse or red meat. However, this version was filled with roasted veggies and a tasty tomato sauce.

We paired it with the local wine, and you know what? It wasn’t half bad. I read a blog telling me never to drink wine in Central Asia and to stick to beer. It’s a good thing I never listen to advice because I would miss out on new experiences like enjoying Uzbeki wine.`

On our way back to the hotel, we journeyed through the pond, where we started our day. Hundreds of people were out enjoying the night with light-up toys, street food, and more.

The Local Side of the City

Our feeble attempt to wake early in the morning, explore, and then take a long afternoon siesta out of the sun started rocky, but we managed to make breakfast at 7 am. We had a lot of walking to do and wanted the fresh morning air to make it easier. Today, we were venturing off to the outer city wall ruins. 

On our way, we saw a lot more people than in the previous two days. It was Monday, so kids were off to school, and adults were off to work. Everyone stopped to say “Salom” or hello with a friendly smile.

We entered a more developed residential area. Yesterday, the neighborhoods we explored were much simpler, but today, we saw larger homes with small gardens out front and small children watering the plants. Many houses had giant cement beehive-shaped ovens in their yard. They were heating them as we got a whiff of samsas cooking. Families with these ovens would cook and sell samas to people on their way to work or school.

One of my favorite things about traveling in Bukhara or Uzbekistan is that you don’t need a guide or a map; you can simply walk, and impressive buildings emerge before you.

Coming across an open courtyard with a monument and temple on either side, we stopped to ponder their meaning. Two women joined us in the space, and we saw them huddle together in front of the temple and bow their heads before slipping money under the door. We later learned that this was a mausoleum, regarded as a holy site, so the women placed cash under the door as an offering.

Morning Markets

We stumbled into a chaotic, narrow side road on the other side of the quiet square. Parallel to the road was a massive open and closed-air market. People were coming and going with shopping carts and crates of supplies. We walked up a dirt road, receiving stares of awe and disbelief from the local shoppers.

The uncertainty over whether we were supposed to be there loomed, but according to our map, the old city wall ruins were just at the end of the road. Everyone seemed to notice we were out of place, picking up their head as they heard English and staring in disbelief as they tried to make sense of the mixed couple invading their market Monday.

People sat out with their vegetables displayed as locals came to buy eggplant, pepper, zucchini, carrots, and onion by weight. We concluded that, more than likely, tourists didn’t take this road, but we enjoyed the look into the daily market life of locals and slowly continued on our way. No one seemed bothered by us, just curious and probably wondering why we chose the side market to explore. 

Old Crumbling Walls and Museums

I’m not sure what we were expecting, but at the end of the road, we found a dried mud foundation with wooden support beams jutting out. There wasn’t a single tourist around the view of the wall, in fact there weren’t even any locals. Perhaps it was just a long-forgotten wall that just exists.

The mud structure followed a long path toward gated doors. As we followed it, we heard a horse neighing… was it inside the wall? We moved closer, and sure enough, a horse was in the wall. I was ready to bust through the wall and free the beast when I realized there was an opening for air, and a man entered the wall from the far end. This old walled fortress doubled as someone’s stable. 

We reached the entrance or exit of the wall and found it had been patched over the years with bits of hay, wood, and mud. This wall, built in the 1500s, was neglected—destined to die compared to the wondrous madrasahs.

We explored a bit before heading back to a more modern walled fortress that was now a museum. Paying just pennies—including our tourist tax—to enter, we learned about Uzbekistan’s culture and history in a humble museum. 

Near the museum was one of Bukhara’s few operating mosques. Having been to Turkey to see the Hagia Sophia and the sprawling mosques with towering minarets, this wooden mosque with hand-carved, intricately cut, and painted pillars was almost refreshing. Since Islam hasn’t grown or overextended in recent years, many mosques are older, and their construction reflects that. Many people gathered outside, ready to go in for the call to prayer.

After taking a break from the heat, we returned to some of the bazaars. I had spotted a few items I wanted to buy. One metal plant inserted into an intricate wood carving caught my eye.

Ganesh and I got in a bit of a spat because, once again, I was ruining his haggling game and trying to overpay for everything. I have this notion that we make enough money. I want to ensure everyone is well paid for their handiwork. However, overpaying for items at markets like this can inflate the prices for locals, alter the tourism economy, and disrupt the local way of doing business. And so we haggled a good price for the plate.

Unfortunately, our time in Bukhara was coming to an end after two nights. It was not nearly enough time, and I was already itching to return.

We asked our hotel to book a car to take us to the train station. This way, we would pay more, but we wouldn’t need to find and barter with a taxi. 

Back at the train station, we began the long process of entering. First, we went to a police booth and showed our passports and printed train tickets. Then, we went through a metal detector and got our tickets checked once again.

Finding some seats, we sat down to wait for our train, hoping we wouldn’t miss it with the Russian and Uzbeki writing and announcements. Thankfully, someone came over to us every departure and asked if our destination was where the train was heading.

Finally, the train to Samarkand approached, and we went outside to the platform. Showing our tickets to the proper cabin conductor, we boarded and found our seats. The large reclining seats had power outlets, plenty of room, a work table, and even cup holders. We settled in as the hostesses came around and offered complimentary snacks. These trains and the service were equally comparable to the ICE first class in Europe but at a fraction of the cost.

I watched the dry landscape speed by as the sun began to fade. Soon, we would be in Samarkand on another adventure in Uzbekistan. 

I hope you enjoyed my travel stories from Bukhara, Uzbekistan. I’m still in awe at how perfect our time in this city was, from the friendly and engaging locals to the literal mind-blowing architecture that filled the streets. I would go back in a heartbeat, and as soon as we are able to travel once again—after COVID–19–I will. Until then, enjoy these images and a virtual tour of Bukhara.