One of the things I most wanted to see in Tashkent was not a mosque, a museum, or a market.
It was the metro.
Most people don’t associate Uzbekistan with magnificent subway stations, and many have no idea that anything like them exists beneath the streets of Tashkent. After nearly seventy years as part of the Soviet Union, one of the city’s most remarkable legacies is its metro system. Designed as much for beauty as transportation, each station has its own identity, celebrating astronauts, artists, scientists, poets, history, and culture. Walking through them feels less like navigating public transportation and more like wandering through an underground museum.
At Alisher Navoiy, elegant domes and decorative details pay tribute to the great fifteenth-century poet. At Kosmonavtlar, deep blue mosaics honor Yuri Gagarin, the first human to travel into space. Every station tells a different story, making the journey itself as memorable as the destination. The stations were beautiful, but I didn’t come simply to photograph them. I wanted to experience them the way the people of Tashkent did.
So I boarded a train.
I never think of myself as old. In fact, I still consider myself pretty fit. So when I stepped inside, the last thing I expected was what happened next.
Three young people immediately stood up to offer me their seats, not one, but three.
I smiled, thanked them, and remained standing. Instead of sitting down, I ended up chatting with two of the young women who had offered me their places. What moved me wasn’t the seat. It was the instinct. There was no hesitation, no looking around to see if someone else would get up, and no pretending not to notice, they simply stood up.
It made me think about something much bigger than public transportation. Kindness is taught. Respect is taught. Children watch the adults around them, and over time those small gestures become part of who they are.
Years ago, when I first came to New York, I remember seeing someone who could have used a seat. I stood up without thinking. Later, someone asked me, “You paid for that seat, didn’t you?”
Sometimes, the question isn’t whether we have the right to keep something. It’s whether we have the opportunity to make someone else’s day just a little easier.
I’ll always remember Tashkent’s remarkable metro stations. But what I’ll remember even more are the three young people who stood up before I even had a chance to ask.
Sometimes the most memorable part of a journey isn’t the place.
It’s the people.