It is hard to verbally express love to the city. Like you are trying to explain for what you love it, but the most important, intrinsic and inmost stays off-screen. Beyond the words. At the level of emotion. And you are gesticulating helplessly, take a deep breath and think, how to enrobe abstract category in mind, – but you can’t do it.

When you come to the old Tashkent courtyard in which the verge between national and simple common-to-all-mankind traditions is wiped long ago, – you will stand motionless. The time goes slower than in the noisy streets of the city. It is quiet here, despite to noise of the highway. Guests are not invited to that part of Tashkent, because it is inner, mental part not-intended for strangers. Look at the majestic monuments of architecture, wide prospects and luxurious buildings. But here is the place of relatives.

You stop, and suddenly see how old parents carefully covered the broken TV with bedspread, they can’t throw it away. Unrepaired walls remind how young father decorated them with paintings many years ago. Adobe wall with ivy stays courageously, every time enduring the earthquakes with fear.

Suddenly for thousand kilometers away your heart stings and you don’t need anything besides calling home. You hear a native voice, imagine your relatives’ smile to the receiver, and the sun irons them by the old hands.

Aunts are sitting at the table and talking about the story heard hundreds of time, but every time it seems new and has a feature to obtain yet more details. You see a hen, looking over the swept yard, and the cat, melancholically lying at the tree.

And you are ready to give all viands of the world for achik-chuchuk (Uzbek national salad) and cookie lying on the old oil-cloth.