A Capital Adventure
As our long weekend commenced, we left the glassy waters of Lake Galvė and the fairy-tale turrets of Trakai behind, rolling eastward to Lithuania’s buzzing capital, Vilnius. The largest of the Baltic cities—though only by a margin slim enough to be overturned by a particularly fertile weekend in Riga—we had booked a modern hotel near the centre, reluctantly parting with Vishnu for a few days (old towns and hulking Transit vans seldom mix well). The excuse for this rare indulgence was twofold: first, it would be our only chance in three months to experience plumbing that didn’t require a strong stomach and an element of bravery, and second, it was Lowri’s birthday—a milestone worthy of a comfortable bed, warm carpets, and a brief emancipation from the morning ritual of searching for clean socks in sub-zero temperatures.
Having checked in, fawned at the faucets, and sunk into the deep comfort of the hotel mattress, we collected our city map and set out to explore. The skies, which had been remarkably clear throughout our time in the Baltics, had turned heavy and unrelenting, sending down steady sheets of rain accompanied by gusts of wind that whipped through the streets and made umbrellas an exercise in futility. The dampness seeped into every layer as we made our way to Vilnius Cathedral, its grand neoclassical façade standing stark and luminous against the grey sky. Inside, warmth and light spilt from the chandeliers, illuminating the vast white interior where a solemn congregation had gathered. After a few moments of quiet observation, we realised we had arrived on All Saints’ Day, explaining both the intensity of the service and the steady stream of people coming in from the rain to pay their respects.
All Saints’ Day, observed on November 1st, is widely commemorated across Catholic countries, including much of Europe, as a day to honour all the saints of the Church, unsurprisingly. Closely following it, All Souls’ Day on November 2nd is dedicated to remembering the departed, particularly in Poland and Lithuania, where families visit cemeteries to pay their respects. Graves are adorned with flowers, garlands, and flickering candles, their warm glow transforming burial grounds into luminous fields well into the night. This explained the eerie procession we had witnessed in the cemetery opposite our hotel at dawn which, at first glance, appeared like a scene from The Exorcist.
Overlooking the city, perched atop a verdant hill, stands Gediminas’ Tower, a 15th-century fortress that has been lovingly restored to its former grandeur since Lithuania regained its independence. From its summit, visitors are treated to dramatic panoramic views of the capital although, by the time we reached the top, drenched through, the allure of the view was somewhat dampened. We quickly retreated to dry refuge, seeking warmth and a couple of pints in a traditional tavern with the name Amatininkų Užeiga (probably The Red Lion in Lithuanian). The cosy, wood-panelled haven provided a much-needed respite, and it was there, over the sound of clinking glasses, that I unveiled my secret plan for the evening’s entertainment.
One of Vilnius’ most fascinating neighbourhoods is Užupis, a quirky enclave that declared itself an independent republic in 1997. This self-proclaimed nation boasts its own flag—whose colours shift with the seasons—an army of eleven sprightly pensioners, and a constitution, famously painted on a wall, that includes such delightfully odd clauses as ‘a dog has the right to be a dog’ and ‘a cat is not obliged to love its owner, but must help in times of need’. Often compared to Montmartre in Paris and Freetown Christiania in Copenhagen, Užupis exudes a bohemian, laissez-faire charm that has long attracted artists, musicians, and creatives seeking refuge from convention. Its vibrant, free-spirited atmosphere is matched by its culinary reputation, with some of the best restaurants in Lithuania, including the renowned Amandus, calling the neighbourhood home.
Having never before experienced a tasting menu with wine accompaniment, we settled in for what would become, without question, the most elaborate meal we’ve had or will ever have. One course after another, each paired with a carefully selected wine, arrived at our table, accompanied by detailed explanations from the chef and the in-house sommelier, who spoke with such enthusiasm and knowledge that I felt like I should’ve been taking notes. By the time we reached course fifteen, and wine fifteen, my ability to form coherent sentences had been drastically compromised, and as our avant-garde test-tube desserts arrived, I was struggling to recall whether I had put on shoes that morning. Despite my own muddled state, Lowri, at least from what I could gather through the haze, seemed to thoroughly enjoy the experience, and we shared a wonderful, if slightly surreal, moment together before our temporary, and hopefully brief, parting the next day. For I was about to embark on an adventure of my own…
J
