The rumble of a metro train rolling into a station lit by chandeliers is often the first sound of a Tashkent morning. Up at Chorsu Bazaar, carts squeak beneath the tiled blue dome, bakers stack round loaves and voices bounce between stalls of dried apricots and spices. By lunchtime, ladles knock against giant cauldrons of plov all over town.
Beyond the bazaar, the yellow-brick Kukeldash Madrasah keeps watch over the old town, while broad, shady boulevards lead to Amir Timur Square. Summers are long, hot and dry, and winters turn cold enough for the odd snowfall. A Local Friend can lead you through the gate of a mahalla courtyard you would have walked straight past.
