Three Cities Called Baku
A city of layers
By Louise Trotter
Baku sits on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, the capital of Azerbaijan; a city of two million. For centuries, it was a trading hub on the Silk Road between Europe and Asia, and that history is still visible in layers: Zoroastrian, Arabic, Persian, Ottoman, Russian, and something very new on top of it all.
I started my Caucasus trip here partly because my expectations were lowest. I've travelled extensively in the Middle East and half-expected a city shaped by oil wealth, much as Dubai or Doha have been, where rapid development often overshadows what came before. What I found instead was a city that had held onto its layers. Three distinct cities occupied the same ground: a medieval walled city, a modern waterfront, and the places where Azerbaijan tells its own story.
I walked from my hotel through Molokan Gardens to Fountains Square and on to the double gates of the old walled city. The gates date to the 12th century, when Baku was growing into a trade and cultural hub on the Silk Road; today, they separate the old city from the new as cleanly as any border crossing.
Inside, the streets are narrow and irregular. What I found was not a preserved relic but a functioning neighbourhood: carpet weavers, art galleries, restaurants operating out of former caravanserais.
At the upper end of the walled city sits the Shirvanshah's Palace Complex, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Buildings are arranged across three descending courtyards; from the upper level, the glass towers of modern Baku are visible over the fortress walls.
The Maiden Tower is older still, and nobody agrees on what it originally was: Zoroastrian fire temple, astronomical observatory, or defensive watchtower, possibly all three at different points. It now houses a museum with a rooftop observation deck, an opportunity I couldn't resist: seeing the old city from above.
Off one of the narrower lanes is the Miniature Book Museum: more than 5,800 books from 83 countries; the Brothers Grimm in a case beside religious texts beside world classics, all in miniature; the rarest among them a Japanese micro-book measuring 0.75×0.75mm.
The rest of the old city: tea houses, hamams, limestone mosques, balconies overhanging the lanes, and cats that looked like they were bred just to be in the inner city.
The boulevard runs for about 4km along the Caspian, from National Flag Square to Freedom Square, and is known variously as the promenade, the boulevard, and the national park. It's a wide green corridor between the old city and the water, with trees and benches along its length.
The Carpet Museum sits along the boulevard in a building shaped like a rolled carpet. Inside, the collection traces the history of Azerbaijan's UNESCO-listed carpet art through pieces spanning centuries, alongside contemporary interpretations. Throughout the museum, women continued the tradition of carpet weaving; some worked side by side, others alone.
I admired the lotus-flower shopping mall from outside before finding a bench instead. From there, I watched couples drifting along the canals of Little Venice, young girls with oversized character-shaped cotton candy, and men fishing from the piers.
At the southern end, I took the funicular up toward Upland Park; the first and only funicular in Azerbaijan. I'd timed the visit for sunset; the pink cherry blossoms framing the Flame Towers were an unexpected bonus.
From Upland Park I photographed the Turkish Mosque and the city reflected in the tower glass; old and new in the same frame, as they are throughout Baku.
Azerbaijan has been called the "land of fire" since Zoroastrian times, when natural gas seeping through the ground burned for centuries. The Flame Towers are oil wealth and ancient identity made into Baku’s skyline. Rising above the old city, they became my daytime landmark before turning into literal torches after dark.
Not far from the towers, Martyrs' Lane runs along the hillside. In January 1990, Soviet troops marched into Baku to crush the independence movement; between one hundred and three hundred people were killed. Azerbaijan declared independence the following year. The lane honours those who died: marble walls with portraits and names etched in polished stone, and an eternal flame.
A subway ride away, the Heydar Aliyev Center stands as the architectural declaration of what the independent country chose to become. Named after Heydar Aliyev, one of the dominant political figures in modern Azerbaijani history, it was designed by Zaha Hadid with no straight lines and no sharp angles; a form that keeps shifting as you circle it. I circled it with my camera for a long time.
Baku’s three cities stay distinct, layered, and occasionally visible all at once: the old city's limestone reflected in a tower's glass, the Caspian behind everything. You don't see Baku in a day. You wander between its layers and find that each one leads back to the others.
