Part 4 of 11.

1/2: Introduction

1. Singapore Airlines (SQ) First Class from JFK to Frankfurt (FRA), plus the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse at JFK;

2. Arrival at FRA, Lufthansa Euro Business class FRA – Istanbul (IST);

3. Arrival in Istanbul, Turkish Airlines (TK) business class IST – Tashkent (TAS), plus, early morning arrival in Tashkent;

4. Day 1 in Tashkent;

5. Day 2 in Tashkent;

6. Day 3 in Tashkent, plus the lowdown on Tashkent’s metro system;

7. Turkish Airlines Business Class TAS – IST, IST – Berlin (TXL), plus TK lounge in IST;

8. Berlin, Day 1;

9. Berlin, Day 2;

10. TXL – Zurich (ZRH) – FRA in Swiss Air Euro Business class, plus arrival in FRA; and

11. Lufthansa First Class Terminal and Lufthansa First Class, FRA – JFK.

*   *   *   *   *

“We have one map,” she said, “and it’s very large.”

That’s fine, I said. I could handle a large map of Tashkent. Sure, I didn’t exactly excel at folding maps, but, I would manage.

She disappeared into a room behind the front desk, and returned with a four foot long tube of paper, which she promptly unrolled to reveal a map of the city. Yes, the map was huge, kind of like something an explorer would tote around, and admire at his desk on the ship, stopping every so often to place pins at the points where he figured to find treasure. Yeah, there was no way I’d be able to bring that around the city without looking like a weirdo. Plus, all the text was in Cyrillic. I had only ever been in one city Sofia, Bulgaria that used Cyrillic on street signs, advertisements, and buildings. It hadn’t been pretty. Try finding your hostel at 6am, bleary eyed, after an all night train ride, with only Cyrillic letters, and no translation from English. The only thing I know about Cyrillic, was that the little spaceship looking thing makes a “d” sound.

“Well, what’s good to check out?” I asked. I was at the front desk of my hotel, on my first morning in Tashkent, trying to ascertain some plan of attack for the day. After finally getting to bed around 5.00am, I had managed to sleep until 7.30am, awoken, showered, breakfasted in the hotel dining room on some sort of scrumptious frybread and jam, choked down two cups of instant coffee (cue the elitist American – I would’ve killed for a Starbucks), all while watching the Nickelodeon show “The Wild Thornberries” in Russian on the dining room’s television (their choice – not mine). Now, at roughly 9am, I was shaking the hotel staff down for information on a day in Tashkent at this very early hour. I don’t care what anyone says. There exists no possible way to automatically adjust to another country’s sleep schedule in an expedient or painless fashion. But, up early, and not at all tired, I was determined to explore the city before my body took the unavoidable plummet of jetlag sleepiness at about three in the afternoon.

“Well, do you want to see historical things, or . . . ” the woman behind the front desk trailed off.

“Yeah, historical things would be great,” I replied. “I also need to change money and visit an ATM. Can I walk to somewhere to do that?”

She began to tell me of a hotel nearby, and after trying for five minutes to give me directions, with hand signals, the map, and a diagram, she and I looked at each other in a state of hopelessness. I think she somehow knew I was hopeless in terms of any sort of directional ability, which is, of course, sadly true. I get lost in even the most rote and familiar of environments. I used to get lost going to my junior of college apartment when walking home from campus. I’d be walking, and all of a sudden, look around, observe my settings, and have no idea where the hell I was. Perhaps even more sadly, I’ve had to navigate my way through several cities with a compass. Really. A device most people use in the wilderness, I use in major cities. Moreover, she knew I’d be skinned alive without competent Russian knowledge. The only phrases I knew, “Is that a countryhouse?” and “We’re in a minefield!” would probabaly not propel me too far in Tashkent.

“I can call our taxi driver,” she said, in a moment of lucidity. “It will only cost you like two dollars an hour. He knows lots of places. His English is, hmmm, not so good, but . . . ” She trailed off.

“That sounds excellent,” I said, relieved to have a mode of transportation, a tour guide, and someone who speaks Russian, and feeling supremely privileged that I would get a native Tashkenter’s view of the city. As I’ve said in previous posts, there does not exist a wealth of information about Tashkent in print, or online. Lonely Planet hasn’t published one of their nifty walking tours of the city.

Five minutes later, the driver arrived, the same driver who drove me from the airport the night before. I climbed into his little Daewoo, the size of a mini-fridge, making sure to fasten my seatbelt. With every cubic centimeter of that four cylinder engine, we sped away from the hotel, that oh-so-wonderfully-annoying Euro techno blaring from the speakers, and onto the streets of Tashkent. The tour had begun. Though drivers in Tashkent seemed, generally, intent on ignoring minor guidelines such as lane markers and the speed limit, I found myself only a few times clutching the door handle in fright as we wove in and out of traffic. My driver, Hassan, definitely took liberties, gunned the engine to dangerous proportions to take advantage of open spaces, and had to slam the breaks a few times, but, overall, driving was not as scary as a place such as Beijing, where, in the midst of all the people blowing their horns, some precarious driving situations made me (briefly) consider believe in God and start praying. Though Hassan’s English was limited, and my Russian nonexistent, we somehow managed to communicate, Hassan often illustrating points with hand signals, noises, and even drawing out numbers on the dashboard of the car for emphasis.

The following are pictures from the morning and afternoon in Tashkent. I’ll intersperse commentary and photographs when necessary. I snapped many photos from our car, simply enjoying the sites, streets, and bustle.

Hassan was a thorough tour leader, beginning by literally pointing out the existence of every building or organization, from other hotel companies (a bit worrisome), restaurants whose names were clearly printed on their awnings, and movie theaters. He took a specially affinity for nightclubs, making sure to let me know of the caliber of women at each particular venue.

Tashkent is still emerging from their former Soviet rule, and blocks of crumbling Soviet-era apartment blocks line the streets. For some reason, I find these structures fascinating, and the architecture beautiful. In Tashkent, each apartment block seemed to be gussied up with artwork or some aesthetic enhancement to remove the building from Communist-era housing anonymity.

Apartment block. Notice the artistic enhancements between the columns of apartments. Most apartment blocks feature some sort of unique artistry on the sides, the removes the dreariness.

Apartment block.

The shape of the block in the background reminded me of some of Romania’s communist apartment blocks, where communist leaders must have thought that simply adding some curves to the buildings would render them more appealing. Again, fascinating architecture.

Beautiful paintings on the side.

Hassan then drove me to a mosque on the outskirts of town. The mosque was one of the most magnificent buildings  I have seen in the world, and best of all, it was completely free of tourists. The mosque seemed to be run by Uighurs, Muslims of Asian descent, of which there are many in Uzbekistan. I was very pleased to stumble across a Uighur community – I find the Uighur history fascinating, plus, when I was in China, where there also exists a sizable Uighur population, I found Uighur food delightful, and hoped to be able to try some again in Uzbekistan. We explored the grounds in the slightly muggy weather. I snapped photos of the brilliant colors and the ornate doorframes, cupolas, and immaculate landscaping. Perhaps most wonderful of all, the curator/imam of the mosque was extremely kind, welcoming, and perhaps, even a bit surprised at my presence. He asked me to make a donation of 3,000 soum (less than two dollars), which, also gained me admission to see one of the world’s oldest Koran’s, on display, at the mosque. A wonderful historical treat. Even the policeman guarding the exhibits were exceptionally kind, one even handing me a shoehorn while I was putting on my shoes after exiting. It’s a rare country where the police are kind.

Entrance, with wildlife!

Beautiful mosaics on the towers.

Interior.

Ornate carvings.

Interior, with tower.

Prayer clocks.

Exterior.

Goodness gracious, those cupola are exquisite. The folks in blue are an Uzbek soccer team that showed up to tour the mosque. It’s a little more commercial behind those gates – not the mosque itself, but, a collection of shops. The master woodworker tried to convince me I was getting an excellent deal because he only wanted to sell me a collapsible bookstand for 50 dollars. Uh huh.

Back view of the mosque.

Close-up of the cupola. Goodness gracious, that mosaic work is simply astounding.

After an hour, we piled back in the car, and rumbled through the streets of Tashkent once again.

Tashkent’s circus!

New, modern hotel.

Offices.

By this point, I think Hassan would’ve killed me if we didn’t break the tour to find something ot eat. Hassan suggested plov, the national dish of Uzbekistan featuring rice and lamb, browned, and cooked in broth. I agreed, and off we to sped to his favorite plov house.

Plov is a really a big deal at this place. I had no idea what to expect. The restaurant itself is a warehouse sized space with about 150 tables, and 30 or 40 waiters bustling around delivering tea, bread, salad, and bowls of plov. Before finding a table, I admired the cooking area.

Now, I’ll try anything once (heroin excepted), but, even in my imaginative state and excitement to try Uzbekistan’s most famous dish, when I saw how it was being prepared, I must admit, I became skeptical. Plov seems to be made in vats, swimming in lipids of some sort, and then, assembled with a bizarre collection of eggs. Whoa, boy.

Seated, we ordered tea, Uighur bread, and a tomato salad. I also unearthed one of the answers to the questions of the great mysteries of the universe, how the hell do you have lunch with a guy when you can’t speak the same language? As usually tends to happen, somehow, we managed to communicate fully during lunch, I answering questions about New York, and Hassan telling me about the demographics of Tashkent, food, and other cities in Uzbekistan. I loved the pride in his voice when he talked, and, it became especially evident over food, when he was able to explain the various components of the dish to me (even if some of it was with animal noise of sheep and horses), its origins, and even how the tea was grown in the north of Uzbekistan. Food an nationalism are a potent combination.

Ultimately, I found the plov pretty tasty. A bit greasy, perhaps, and, I can’t stand raisins, especially golden raisins, but ate them anyway. The lamb was wonderfully flavorful and tender, and even the horse medallion was quite good. I can now add horse to my list of exotic meats/parts, including dog, goat, ostrich, and chicken hearts.

At the end of the meal, Hassan drove me back to the hotel, where I took a nap, awoke, and rounded out the day in a wonderfully exciting fashion, by working on schoolwork.

Overall, a wonderful day. A quick, efficient, and easy way to see the city. I never would’ve been able to cover so much ground without a car, and, I felt that I immediately got the most touristy items checked off, by someone from Tashkent, who, in showing me the city, was able to demonstrate his own pride and admiration for his hometown. Likewise, I felt my own sense of pride and admiration, too, that I had managed to see an insider view of Tashkent, and take little lessons from Hassan along the way, from food, history, Tashkent parking (just muscle your vehicle into a space, in any fashion you want) nightclubs, even, and perhaps most wonderfully, learning how to jaywalk across busy streets. “In America,” I told Hassan, after we finished crossing a thoroughfare, “police – no good.” I crossed my arms in disapproval to demonstrate the illegality.

“Eh, here,” Hassan shrugged. “No problem.”