Samarkand, Uzbekistan

Samarkand

“Where are you from?” asked one of a couple dozen police officers, who had been staring at me.  Shit, I must be somewhere I’m not supposed to be. “San Francisco,” I choked. The officer motioned me to come closer. The other officers moved in around me. “How many in your party?” the officer sternly quipped. I raised a finger, “Just one.” “Where are you staying? I handed him my hotel card. “Grand Samarkand Superior,” he slowly read aloud and passed it to a couple of the officers. A discussion ensued. They concluded that they knew where the Grand Samarkand was. The officer handed the card back and said, “You want ticket?”— I had no idea what he was talking about. Another officer said, “Football game,” and pointed in the direction where another group of officers stood. “Uzbekistan and Iran, ticket free,” he said. “Why not?” I thought and took the ticket and proceeded to the other group of officers where an officer scanned me with a metal detector and another patted me down. From behind, the officer who had given me the ticket shouted, “Twenty dollars!” They don’t stop at anything, I thought, so I turned back and handed him the ticket. “No,” he laughed, “You keep, just joking.” Turns out, the stadium was a block away. Inside army and police officers were everywhere. I found a seat and an officer sat down behind me. I turned and smiled, but he didn’t smile back. Another officer sat down next to me, but he wasn’t smiling either. The Uzbeks won 3-1.