Lithuanian charm

A whirlwind weekend in Vilnius and elsewhere, where much charm lives, but Soviet habits can die hard

I arrive in Vilnius only one hour and 15 minutes after departing from Boryspil airport. Ieva meets me in her mother’s blue Honda, which doesn’t have air conditioning. I climb in, fasten my seatbelt, and crack open a bottle of water. The weather is scorching hot.

We drive towards the airport’s exit, but the parking gate is down, blocking the road. There’s no automated payment system at the exit, nor does a parking attendant appear to be on duty.

Ieva, a Lithuanian citizen who resides in the United States, isn’t amused. She lets out a disapproving groan.

“So how do we get out?” I ask.

“I’ll try to find someone,” she says, stepping out of the car.

Meanwhile, I sit tight and continue chugging water. One of my ex-boyfriends used to say the human body needs an extra six glasses of water to re-hydrate after a flight. I’m not sure if he’s right, but today I’m drinking because of the heat, not the flight.

Ieva returns about ten minutes later with a parking attendant; the gate rises to an upright position, and we’re off to Kaunas. Lithuania may appear a fairly well-adjusted member of the European Union, but I’m quickly discovering that visitors can expect some Eastern European-style surprises.

For an hour and a half we drive through extremely flat farmland. There’s nothing particularly interesting or charming about the land I see out the windows.

Lithuania isn’t known for its beautiful landscape, Ieva tells me, adding that her parent’s house isn’t far now.

The centrally located city of Kaunas is the country’s second largest (pop. 415,000), after Vilnius, and it’s also Ieva’s hometown. Archaeologists say the city dates back to the 13th century. Kaunas’ historical importance owes much to its location at the convergence of the Nemunas and Neris Rivers; the city is still a river port today.

Kaunas is the largest industrial area in Lithuania and home to nine universities.

1 Kaunas

A bowl brimming with fresh strawberries sits on the kitchen counter, next to a plate of cherries. The house is filled with locally made contemporary art and hand-made furniture.

“Speak Russian,” Ieva says to her mother: “I want to hear Sarah speak Russian.” Ieva’s interest in my language skills stems from the fact that we met at a Russian-language immersion program in the United States. We joke about the fact that Ieva, who has Russian-speaking grandparents, went all the way to the States to learn a language spoken by her family in Lithuania.

“But I want to practice my English,” her mother replies, with a heavy Slavic accent.

The conversation continues in the kitchen of the family’s two-story house, located in a former vacation spot just outside the city limits. Many Kaunas residents have given up cramped and crumbling apartments for full-time country living, Ieva explains. The small communities beyond the city’s limits – like the one in which Ieva’s parents live – are not self-sufficient like, say, North American suburbs: Residents go to nearby Kaunas regularly, if not daily, for shopping and entertainment.

Ieva’s mother begins preparing dinner, but we decide to go into town.

My tour begins in the cobbled streets of the old town, which was virtually untouched by the Soviets, thankfully. Although much of the historic town needs restoration, it doesn’t lack character or soul.

The historic heart of the town is Rotuses aikste (the central square), which is surrounded by German river traders’ houses, built in the 15th and 16th centuries.

Highlights of the old town include the Kaunas Castle, a source of great pride for locals despite the fact that little remains; the Saint Peter and Saint Paul’s Cathedral, originally built in the 15th century and reconstructed several times; the tomb of Maironis, a late 19th-century/early-20th century Kaunas priest and poet whose works were banned by Stalin; and the 17th-century former town hall, converted during Soviet times into the Wedding Palace.

Ieva tells me that few Lithuanians today opt for secular weddings. Most citizens of this predominantly Catholic country prefer to tie the knot in church.

East of the old town lies the 19th-century new town, where most museums, shops, restaurants and hotels are located. Lithuanian independence was declared in 1918 in the Kaunas Musical Theater on Laisves aleja (Freedom Avenue), the new town’s main drag. The street is also home to Saint Michael the Archangel Church, built for the Russian Orthodox faith in 1895. Today the church is open to Catholics. Near the church is the controversial Man Statue, controversial because he is nude, modeled on Nike, the Greek god of victory. It’s also worth seeing the monuments to Lithuania’s independence heroes and the freedom flame (Laisves paminklas).

We stop at the outdoor terrace of a restaurant serving native Lithuanian cuisine. Ieva orders me a greasy mushroom soup in a black bread bowl; cepelinai, a large dumpling made from thick potato dough stuffed with meat and topped with a sauce made from onions, butter, sour cream and bacon; and an Utenos-brand locally brewed beer. I didn’t think it got any heavier and greasier than Ukrainian food, but I was wrong.

2 Vilnius

The next morning we’re off to Vilnius (pop. 600,000). According to legend, Vilnius was founded in the 1320s by the Lithuanian grand duke Gediminas, although the site was probably occupied for hundreds of years prior to that. The Vilnius Castle Museum, our first stop, is housed in the city’s 14th century castle, which sits atop Gediminas Hill.

Walking up Gediminas Hill I prepare myself for disappointment. I’ve seen some spectacular castles, and from the looks of the 1930s restoration above us, I have a feeling that this one will not make the list. But the short climb to the hilltop is worth it for the spectacular views of the city.

We make our way down the hill and toward the historic part of the city, which has earned its Unesco World Heritage status for being the largest old town in all of Eastern Europe. Originally built in the 15th and 16th centuries, the narrow streets, hidden courtyards and abundant churches retain the feeling of centuries long gone, despite the fact that much of the old town has been beautifully and painstakingly restored.

Our stroll through the winding streets of cafes and small shops is interrupted by rain, which passes over as abruptly as it begins.

“Let’s stop for a coffee,” Ieva suggests, pointing out a cafe terrace, where we drink iced lattes: not a bad deal at $1.50 apiece. I realize that Vilnius is packed with bars and cafes to satisfy everyone’s taste.

Now we’re off down Main Street toward the Town Hall Square, which was once the heart of Vilnius’ commercial, civic and religious life. Main Street is home to the city’s oldest baroque church, St. Casimir’s, built by the Jesuits in the early 17th century. During tsarist times it was taken over by the Russian Orthodox Church and adorned with an onion dome, which was removed in the 1940s by the Soviets. The old Town Hall was built in the 16th century. Markets and merchants could be found in the Town Hall Square from the 15th century. Today the old Town Hall is known as Artists’ Palace.

We wander through the bustling Old Town for most of the day, and in the afternoon I tell Ieva and Agla (by this time we’ve met up with Agla, one of Ieva’s friends) that I’d like to explore the old Jewish ghettos. My suggestion is met with little encouragement from my Lithuanian companions, who prefer to hang out in the newly renovated, trendy part of the Old Town. They wonder what I could possibly hope to see there, and if a Vilnius ghetto even existed at all.

“I don’t know much about it,” Agla says. “Lithuanians don’t really pay attention to the Jewish community,” she adds. I suppose it’s easy to overlook a community numbering only 5,000 (compared to 240,000 on the eve of World War II), I tell her.

After a bit of coaxing, we do make our way to the former Jewish quarter. Across a busy road from a beautiful park, we turn into a narrow cobblestone street lined with two- and three-story apartment buildings, most of which have not been restored. The streets are nearly empty, possibly due to the on-and-off rain, but there are a few Polish-speakers standing around the entrance to one of the buildings. Several shops dot the streets, exhibiting signs better suited for a museum than the street, written in Hebrew and Polish, peeling from age and exposure to the elements.

I feel as if we’ve left Vilnius altogether as we wander through the silent neighborhood, occasionally meeting a stray cat or a babushka.

“I had no idea about this place,” says Agla, a Vilnius resident.

Not much remains today of the city’s Jewish past, save the small Jewish quarter and a small community center and museum. The Soviets built a stadium on top of the city’s Jewish cemetery in 1950, but a new one was consecrated in 1991.

And as we round a corner, it’s clear that the neighborhood is in the early phases of renovation. Through an archway we discover several old apartment buildings turned exclusive single-family townhouses, and up the street is the city’s only modern synagogue, built in 1894 and restored in 1995.

From here we’re off to the unofficial Artists Republic of Uzupis, the bohemian heart of the city, which has its own story to tell. The “republic” was formed in the late 1990s when artists were pushed out of the historic Old Town by soaring real estate costs. They moved into buildings in the run-down Uzupis region, today a self-proclaimed independent republic, complete with president and constitution. Much of Uzupis, the place to go to enjoy the city’s galleries and art cafes, has been nicely renovated.

3 Trakai

The next day we drive to Trakai, Lithuania’s 14th-century capital, located 28 km outside of Vilnius. For travelers without their own set of wheels, several trains connect Trakai to Vilnius. The picturesque town boasts two lakeside castles that attract sunbathers, dog walkers, tourists and newlyweds from across the country, and beyond.

The ruins of Trakai’s 14th-century peninsula castle are in a park at the north end of town, but the grander of the two is the gothic Island Castle, linked to the mainland by footbridges. The castle’s outer courtyard is separated from the rest of the castle by a moat; the castle structure itself, meticulously renovated, contains a range of galleries and rooms that currently house the Trakai History Museum.

On the castle grounds Ieva and I try our hands at a little archery ($0.3 per arrow) and take photos for several groups of foreign tourists before crossing back over to the mainland. On the way back to the car, Ieva says she wants a kibinai, meat and onions baked into a doughy bread pocket. The dish is attributed to the Karaimai, a Turkic people originating from Baghdad that was brought to Trakai from Crimea in the 1400s to serve as castle bodyguards. Only a few dozen Karaites people are said to still live in the area. The community adheres to the firm moral principles and teachings of the Karaim religion and still speaks Karaim, a Turkic language.

We stop into a lakeside cafe to sample the local special: I’m about to be jolted back into Ukraine, just for a moment.

We enter the cafe, but it’s full, as is the lakeside terrace. The waitress directs us to the restaurant’s bar to place a take-out order. The female bartenders are sitting at the bar drinking tea and don’t even glance our way. Ieva interrupts their conversation to explain that we’d like two meat dumplings, to go.

“Go through that doorway and tell the cook,” the younger of the two barks. As advised, we enter the steamy hot kitchen, an action that arouses the temper of the middle-aged cook.

“What are you girls doing in here – do you want me to throw you in the oven?” she screams in Lithuanian at as while shooing us out the door.

So now we’re back in the bar. The bartenders look over at us but don’t say a word. The young one gets up with a sigh and enters the kitchen. She returns with two goodies wrapped in paper. We pay and leave.

Despite my overall impressions of Lithuania as a warm, eccentric and soulful country, I guess old habits die hard.