The next morning, we saw the conventional sights of Samarkand. We started off with breakfast at 8, and by nine o'clock we (and Otabek, of course) were on our way to the Registan, Gur Emir, Shahri-Sabz and the Bibi Khonim mosque. We were supposed to leave Samarkand at noon, so we were in a bit of a hurry.

The Registan was its usual dramatic self; Gulnara loved it and Mom took lots of pictures. By the time we left, we were already off-schedule and I had a feeling things were only going to get worse. Shahri-Sabz was next. It's my favourite site in Samarkand, and we spend a long time there. It's rough and cobbled, though, and Gulnara's shoes really weren't up to the challenge. At one point I saw her begin to descend a small flight of stairs and had the sudden realization that she wasn't going to make it. I ran over just as she began to step down, and sure enough, on the next step she tumbled. I reached out and caught her, though, so no damage was done. It's a good thing she's such a little person. (4'10", tops) We made our way through all he remaining sites, and were back at the house by one, to eat lunch. A niece made us lunch, since everyone else was at work. Otabek ate with us, and made several calls to try to find his sister or father to come say good-bye to us.

The phenomenon of the niece in Uzbekistan is interesting. I have been in any number of houses where there was a teenage niece lurking around, living with the family and helping with chores. I think maybe that's what they do with girls who finished high school and didn't go on to college. Send them off to family members. I suspect it gives the nieces a better chance at finding a husband, since they get more exposure. It certainly works well for the families they go to - they get extra help around the house.

Otabek couldn't find anyone to say good-bye - doctors are never easy to track down - so we set out to find a taxi to Bukhara. Otabek really wanted to drive us, but we wouldn't let him. It would have been too much of an imposition. We first went to the street where taxis left for Bukhara, but there were very few cars there. All Otabek could find was a taxi that would take us as far as Navoi city and then we'd have to find another. This sounded pretty sketchy, so we agreed when Otabek offered to take us to the railway station to look for a taxi. After much searching at the station, Otabek did indeed find us a car. He made one last plea to let us drive him, and then settled for pointedly writing down the driver's name, license number, and plate number.

The drive to Bukhara was uneventful but long. None of us managed to sleep enough to use up much time, so we sat there bored and staring out the window. The driver had this annoying habit of turning on the radio, finding only static, and leaving it on. It was hotter in front than in back, and Mom kept opening the window and freezing Gulnara and I. Even talking about Mike couldn't keep Gulnara and I occupied. There wasn't a whole lot left to say. We did practice pronouncing the difference between "Bored" and "worried". She has trouble with the difference between B and W, so I just worked on having her pronounce bored as one syllable and worried as two.

We had to stop several times for police checks (this is not because of the situation with Afghanistan - it's just ordinary Uzbek life) but we only had to show our documents twice. Gulnara was nervous because she only had papers and not a passport, so Mom and I were prepared to create a diversion if necessary. The one time we did have to show passports, though, Mom gave hers first with her haughtiest look, and that caused so much confusion that the militisyaneer completely forget about Gulnara and me. Mom didn't even have to hand over both passports (American and Canadian) to do it. I think the way she sneered down her nose sufficed.

Upon arrival in Bukhara, we discovered that our driver had lied when he said he knew Bukhara. He took what I was pretty sure was a wrong turn immediately, and then proceeded to drive around at random. Then he tried to drop us off at the bus station, but Gulnara reminded him he'd agreed to drive us all the way to our hotel. We then drove around at random some more, and then the driver tried to tell us we'd have to get out and get another taxi. Gulnara refused again and told him to ask directions. He said there was no one to ask, so she informed him that she would ask directions in that case. And she did. Three or four times, and we finally got to the Labi Hauz, one of the best known landmarks of Bukhara, and the location of our hotel. The driver told me that if I was going to pay him in dollars I had to do it at a rate of 1000 som to the dollar. Since the going rate is 1200, I refused and had to spend several million years counting out 30,000 som in 100 and 200 som notes. Finally we settled up and made it into the hotel, Sasha and Sons.

The hotel, as ever, was lovely. Sasha speaks perfect English, and had no trouble getting money changed for us or finding my mother an airline ticket. (G and I couldn't fly because her papers don't let her) We settled into our room, and then went out for dinner to the unreasonably expensive restaurant in the beautiful former hammam. I was a little embarrassed to take Gulnara to a restaurant with a set price of $10 a head, but I knew my mother would love it.

It turned out that their price had gone down to $7 for the set meal, and we had a great time. Gulnara was happy to take a break from translation (we had an English speaking waiter) and the setting was ideal. The food wasn't even bad, and we spent about two hours sitting, eating, and exploring the rooms. We were all ready for bed after that and were back in the hotel by ten. Gulnara prayed and Mom and I talked for a while. I claimed the awful cot bed, since Gulnara had slept on the floor the night before. It seemed only fair she should get the good bed, and she didn't argue.

In the morning, Mom and I put Gulnara in a taxi to the mausoleum of Bahruddin Naqshaband, the spiritual leader of Gulnara's brand of Islam. Mom and I were more interested in the sights of Bukhara (yeah, I'm a lousy Muslim. Don't I know it.) so we walked around the city. We all agreed to meet back at the hotel at eleven. I showed Mom the good places to shop and wander, and we had the chance to talk fast in English without me stopping to translate. Also, we didn't have to talk about Mike for a change.

When we returned to the hotel at eleven, Gulnara was watching TV in our room. Apparently she had been there since ten. I was surprised she hadn't taken the chance to walk around a little, but I guess she was tired.

Gulnara was not a big Bukhara fan. Like most Uzbeks, she preferred Samarkand. The spectacular over the historic, I suppose. I could tell as we walked around Bukhara that she really wished we could just leave for Tashkent. I was in schoolmarm mode, though, and insisted on taking her and mom to all kinds of places I knew mom wouldn't be able to find on her own. After our tour, we had a nasty lunch at the choihona by Labi Hauz, and then loaded into a taxi to go to Tashkent. We'd found the taxi earlier in the day, on our way to Char Minar, and arranged the price and where we'd meet.

Mom ostentatiously wrote down the info for our taxi, waved goodbye to us, and Gulnara and I set out for Tashkent.

Or so I thought.

In fat, we were on our way to the driver's village. It turned out he didn't actually own the car he'd agreed to drive us to Tashkent in, so he had to go find the owner and convince him to make the trip. While he was doing this, we sat in the car in his driveway, making slow conversation with the women of his house. We admired the yard, agreed to be guests there someday, and accepted a bunch of grapes from their arbour. Finally our driver came back with the car's owner and we left for Tashkent. It was 4:30. I had high hopes that with two drivers we'd be able to get there in 6 or 7 hours.

We arrived in Tashkent at 1:00 am. We got stopped at every militisya stop from Bukhara to Samarkand, and at one point they actually had to get a set of new documents for the car made. Each and every stop frightened Gulnara, since apparently her papers weren't good enough for travel or something. The drivers refused to go over 80 km per hour (48 mph), since they didn't think it was good for the car. The car was small and the seats were hard. There was no radio. Gulnara and I ran out of things to talk about and took to staring out the windows into the dark and whining about how bored we were. At some point, the guy in the passenger seat started reciting all the English words he could remember from elementary school, and I dozed off with my head in Gulnara's lap, listening to "cat, house, apple, book, car, truck, fish…"

Gulnara slept in my lap. We talked to the drivers, and told them lies about our lives. We talked about Mike. We played word games. We talked about Kir. We talked about my puppy, about pollution, about nuclear plants, about her ex-fiancé Mirzo. We slept and pretended to sleep.

We were stopped by yet another checkpoint, and this time we were asked for our papers. I had Gulnara wait to give hers until after he was done with mine. I gave them a letter from my employer - a totally unnecessary letter designed specifically to obfuscate the militsiya - and once the guy was done deciphering it, he had forgotten about Gulnara and we continued on.

Once we arrived, finally, in Tashkent, the drivers had no idea where my apartment was. Luckily, for once I knew where we should go and was able to give decent directions. We pulled into the courtyard of my building. After some bickering about exchange rates and prices, during which I had to threaten to get Kir, Gulnara and I hefted our bags and staggered up to my apartment.

Thankfully, Kir was waiting up for us and answered the door right away. We assigned Gulnara a bedroom, and headed for bed. She was calling Mike as I crawled under the covers.

In the morning, I left work for and Gulnara was awake to let me out. She was glowing with joy and told me she had lots of news to tell me, and that Mike would be coming over soon. I spent the morning at the office raging with curiosity. I called Kir about 11, and was informed that Gulnara and Mike had been talking for two hours and were luminescent with joy. I arranged to meet Kir for lunch.

Gulnara and Mike came to lunch, too, and they were a highly entertaining sight. They had quite clearly gone from two individuals to a couple. They were happy and comfortable together, and although as good little Muslims they never touched, there was a palpable sense of closeness between them. It had been a long time since I had seen Mike so happy. We kibitzed over how Mike should approach Gulnara's parents, and Gulnara had pizza for the first time.

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USAID is one of many donors for the project I work for. The views expressed herein are the author’s own views and do not necessarily reflect those of the author’s employer or especially those of the United States Agency for International Development or the United States Government. And I mean it. I probably give the US government heart attacks.