Lithuania is the dark, undiscovered country. Or at least, that’s the way it felt to me. Being from Poland, I can understand my homeland’s language, get out of scraps, talk to people. Even in the rest of Europe, there is comfort that I can decipher writing in French, or Spanish, or what be. Japan is exceedingly organized and safe. But the cold morning that we left the Warsaw apartment before any one else woke, we boarded a train into the distant East, past Bylestock and other Polish cities that I always heard were backward, poor, and a throw back to the communist era. Like a Joseph Conrad character, I’m going far into the dark, undiscovered country.
The ride from Warsaw is long. Nine hours. Seven in a first class cabin which Jen and I manage to secure for ourselves and can stretch out to sleep. The Poland outside changes as the train speeds deeper into what seems like the cold, white death of fabled Siberia.
From a quirk of history, the rails in Europe are a different width than then those of Russia and its former territories. So at the Lithuanian border, we change trains and board a dreary, back breaking contraption of cold war vintage. But past the border, the climate changes from Poland’s powdery white to a surprising green. Fields of iridescent grass stretch across Lithuania. The country must have been warm until that morning when the frost sneaked in and wrapped every blade in a shiny sheath of ice. The houses change to Lithuania’s soviet style – tiny, dirty, with falling planks of wood, and craggy chimneys that spew dark smoke from cheap coal burning inside to keep the homes warm. The signs, as I feared, have become indecipherable. And people stare at us – the two Americans who came with too much luggage. I’ve never felt more like a stranger in a strange land.
Past the border, people’s expressions change. Not the way you expect, either. Most Eastern Europeans seemingly pride themselves in never letting their dower expressions change. If they occasionally smile, the quickly recover and resume their sinister – my life is such a downer and so are you – scowl. The people in Lithuania, on the other hand, smile. And smile a lot. And are warm. And are cheerful. It was something cling on to while heading deeper into this new country.
For the next two hours of the train ride to Vilnius, Lithuania’s capitol, Jen and I browse our Lonely Planet guide book, absorbing the country’s history, cuisine, where to stay and low a behold, we read that Lithuanian’s are basketball fanatics. Huh? Basketball? This far East? It’s like learning Eskimos love water polo. But as we arrive in Vilnius that night, it all makes sense. I see Lithuanians aren’t ethnically Slavs. Slaves are Poles, Russians, Slovaks, Czechs, Croats, Ukraine, etc. We ethnic Slavs roam the entire region of North Eastern Europe and most of five times zones of Russia. And into this mass, history plopped little island of 3.5 million people who are ethnically Balts. Or Baltic people. And Balts are freakishly tall. So freakishly tall that I at 6 foot 2 plus boot heels am of average height here. For my entire life I was the tall guy, the imposing guy, the guy who found some security in my height – I’ve lost it here. And I don’t like it. Balts are rail thin and have dark, angular features with deep black eyes that often are angled like pixies. Liv Tyler looks Lithuanian. Yet, Lithuanians are called, “Northern Italians”, because like the Mediteranian namesakes, Balts are warm and gregarious.
From our train, we hop a cab to our hotel, Domus Maria. A former monastery built in 1700’s, the hotels room are clean, warm, and quirky due to their ancient curved ceilings. The monks still run the place, though the reception desk people are all hotel professionals. It feels like civilization. And in the moment, I feel foolish. I realize my prejudice against Lithuania and its civilization is a foolish as I find most Americans prejudice toward Poland and its culture. People used to tell me Poland lacks ice cubes because Poles lost the recipe – which they said in jest, yet with an unspoken conviction that my homeland was somehow backward. I had done no better.
Jen and I took showers, changed clothes, and headed out to dinner. We asked the reception desk girl for a recommendation of local food and she steered us to what can best described as the Lithuanian version of TGI Fridays, a local chain restaurant scattered across this country. It offers a rich assortment of local fair that, as the guide book warned, would make you gag. But more on that later. First we had to get to the restaurant.
Domus Maria is perched on the Southern edge of Vilnius’ old town – an endless maze of baroque buildings that make you feel like you're Mozart walking around ancient Vienna, or Da Vinci in old Italy. It’s a dazzling experience, makes you feel like you stepped back in a time machine. The buildings are clumped together, beautiful, and painted in an endless rainbow of pastel colors with white trim and exquisite decorative sculptures. One building is lavender, the next one is salmon, the next pink… and on it goes like box of fine artists coloring pencils. Except for the few main avenues, one walks on cobble stone streets only ten feet wide, which weave in gentle curves, under arches, through courtyards, across little parks, so every few feet brings you a new vista of incredible architecture and beauty. And all around you are churches painted in coloring book colors, with domes of gold, black, onion shapes, and glittering crosses. Vilnius’ old town is the largest in Europe and has a beauty unchanged in hundreds of years. It makes Prague look like a worn out tourist trap (which it is). And all through this magical city walk the tall Lithuanians, dressed in black, like tall dark sticks that brush past you. Or actually skate past you. Or slip. For you see, the unexpected frost which encased the country side has reached the city. Every square inch of street is ice covered. It’s like walking across a hockey rink… and from Domus Maria, it's mostly down hill. Jen and I grab on to each other, trying not to skid onto the roadway and into the occasional passing car. It’s not easy. We plod on. Step after carefully placed step. We look like idiots. But that’s okay, because nobody else is doing better. And we’re hungry. And scary Lithuanian food awaits.
We reach the Lithuanian TGI Fridays, which, like most restaurants in the city, weaves down into medieval bunkers with bare stone walls and low doorways which force all to stoop. There’s only one way in and out. Fire codes are not a big thing here, apparently, but it's still really cool experience as you feel a sort of communal emotion with the centuries of visitors who found the way down here to eat. Other than their national potato dumpling, which is meat filled and called a Zeppelin, most of the cuisine is standard Eastern European. It’s the few bits of unique Lithuanian fare that would make non-nationals gag. Jen and I scanned through the menu’s photos of country’s specialties, daring each other to try them. No luck. Not enough bravery on either side. And certainly neither of us had strong enough stomachs, for we were looking at toasted pigs tails.
Yup, pig tails. Brown, crunchy, curly, and I could swear I could see the hair on them still. I always found Polish food hard to explain to Americans, but this I couldn’t tackle. Yet Balts crawl down into these restaurants and get piss roaring drunk while munching on the little porcine hind parts which they dip into suspicious brown sauces. I was seeing it all around me. They were also munching on braised animal brains, pigs ears, sliced tongues and other “meat by products” that most of the world disguises as hot dogs. Balts like it raw and real. As if they want to really experience the poor animal that got diced for dinner. Most Americans settle for nachos. My mind flashes back – thinking the Balts primitive. There I go again being prejudice. Jen and I play safe that night and order the most generic Zeppelins and some duck. The tall Lithuanians around us drink tall mugs of beer, we stick to wine.
It’s now late and dark and freezing as we stumble our way across the ice glazed streets. Both of us are tired and mumbling about maybe heading home. Or maybe we should go out. But here, we don’t know a soul. And the Balts, as friendly as they seem, don’t seem friendly to us. So I’m back feeling like a stranger in a strange land. Jen tries half heartedly to get us in a club we spot, where locals swarm in wearing cowboy outfits and hats. They have to let real Americans into a cowboy party, Jen tries to reason with the bouncer, but the Lurch like tall figure nods no. So we resume skating towards the hotel room.
Halfway up the hill to Domus Maria, we spot two Italians. Both wear stylish flat soled Italian shoes, and on this ice, cling together like clowns in an ice-capade show. Luigi, the tall one with a Burberry scarf wrapped around his head like a bandage on a head trauma victim, stands with his feet apart, sliding behind Frederico, who seems to know where he’s going while avoiding slipping into walls. These guys seem relatable, so we ask if they know of any parties. And being Italians, they’re gregarious, friendly, and in a few minutes, our new best friends. They lead us to bar where they hope to run into other friends, and most importantly for the two Latin lovers, meet fresh girls.
The bar is full of Balts. And full of Englishmen who came to Vilnius for a stag party. People in the states think Europeans hate Americans the most because of Bush. Not so. They have a bigger problem with Brits, who in drunken rampages called Stag Parties (Bachelor Parties) tear through Eastern European cities causing fights, vomiting, pissing, abusing woman, and destroying things. And here, they’re burping, making noise, and I would swear the pub owners are calling in extra security. One Irish drunk starts talking to Jen. He’s as big as me, grinning and on the verge of groping. I run Jiu-jitsu moves through my head – finding the fast move to take him down should need be. God, I wish, I hadn’t suspended training. Luigi in the meantime is working his two cell phones to scrounge up girls, while Frederico is spouting about his love for 80’s and 70’s American rock-and-roll. He’s an odd, self-hating Italian who thinks the last good things to come out of Italy were Caravaggio’s paintings. America, on the other, can do no wrong. At least in Frederico’s opinion. And as much as he loves America, he loves women more. A few rounds of vodka, vodka red bulls, and other fun drinks, and we’re all wasted. Now the truth comes out. Both Italians reveal that its hard to pick up women in Italy, but in Vilnius, its like shooting fish in a barrel. They’re on a sexual rampage picking up wannabe models, though Luigi swears its all to find a wife. One girl he knows is dating the winner of Lithuanian Idol – a local celebrity - and we can drive over to his apartment and hang with some cool locals. Great idea. Luigi even rented a car, so we can all drive there. Even better.
But Luigi rented the car before seeing it. It’s a cramped, tiny, green European thingy that looks like a mini Cooper mini, mini. Luigi got a deal on it because the car is a rolling billboard for Air Baltic, an airline. Everything on the outside of the car is sales text and from the roof sprouts a tall vertical plaque with the airlines logo. We cram inside with an Italian looking for a wife, other signing “Thriller”, and skid through Vilnius in a dorky advertisement for cheap airfares to Denmark.
We get to the Idol’s picturesque building in a neighborhood Luigi says is insanely expensive to rent, and learn another of Vilnius’ secrets. The outside architecture is pastel pretty. But when we walk into the building’s stair case, in this top notch Upper East Side of Lithuania’s capital, the interior walls are covered in graffiti. I happen to find graffiti artistic, but anybody else would see this and think, “dope den”. Every square inch is tagged. Even the windows. I wonder how much more of this magical town is a Potemkin village. The apartment where the Idol lives is a dump too. Jen says it belongs to his model girl friend. I believe it’s his. He sleeps on a mattress on the floor and graffiti seems to have sprawled into his rooms like weeds that grew out of control. With a flop of bleach blonde hair that he’s thrown over his face, this idol is also a dead ringer for the lead singer of Flock of Seagulls. Add to this his jeans are 80’s white and tight; with cheap, old sneakers; and the New York dive feel of the apartment; and I suddenly feel Reagan is still President.
Lithuania’s idol is nice, quiet, and plays us some of his music. His Idol winning song, I presume. He also has no clue about marketing himself. Jen and I try to show him Myspace music and how he can spread his art outside of the little Lithuania. He’s nice guy, so why not help him, we figure. Frederico is in the kitchen, pouring everybody tall beer mugs of vodka and orange juice, and still talking about Michael Jackson, whom he idolizes. We head out to a local club.
And like most of the world’s cities, as foreign as they may seem, in the fun loving, youthful underbelly, they’re all the same. A big room with lights, bar, dj’s and lots of people. We drink more and for the night, are instant best friends. “I am Lithuanian’s Idol winner number 1, and he is winner number three,” he tells me as he points across the table to a geekish looking musician. Winner Number 3 smiles back and pops up to the dance floor to lip-sync his almost winning song for the crowd. Sandra, Idol #1’s wanna be model girlfriend tells me Lithuania guys are geeks, that’s why the girls are desperate for foreigners. No wonder the two Italians have become Casanovas here. Next minute, Jen is on the dance floor with Sandra, who uses her coal black eyes to flirt and steal a kiss on the lips from Jen. The party goes on until 5 in the morning, by which time Luigi wants to come stay with us in LA (if he can bring two models with him – maybe one of them can be his wife) and Sandra wants to come too. Frederico is inviting for New Years, his place in Milan – when he’s not still talking about Michael Jackson. They’re all completely wasted out of their minds and I’m surprised by my sobriety. Guess its one of the advantages of being Polish and knowing how to drink. At the club, we decide to stay in Vilnius for New Years.
By the time Jen and I wake up the next morning, it’s 4PM, and in this part of the world, night fall. We both have throbbing hang-overs; and I thought I was doing so well last night. In our unconscious stupor, we miss most of a day of sight seeing, but neither of us mind. We both like to see a country’s history and it’s current life. To feel it vibrantly around us, and learn yet again, that people are the same every where. Err, no. Not in Lithuania – as we shortly learn.
We head out to visit Vilnius’ churches. Each a gem of surprising beauty. There are Roman Catholic and Russian Orthodox churches here, two religions which seem to have survived here in harmony for centuries. You can always tell which church you enter. When you walk under ornate sculptures of angels and apostles who seem to grow out of every ledge of the buildings interior, where old, dark wooden pews line the interior, where the body of Jesus hangs on the cross that over looks a central alter – it’s Roman Catholic.
Russian Orthodox churches reach out to you with incense. Even as you approach the exterior doors, deep, rich, warm incense fills your nostrils. Then when you enter, incense seems to infuse your whole body. It’s ever present. And the are no alters, no sense of a priestly upper class that lords over the poor sinful masses during prayer. Russian Orthodox churches are mysterious to me, with dark lighting, as if portraying the mystery of God. Candles glow everywhere, and glitter off of countless, exquisite paintings of Jesus, his saints and angels, with each dark painting being a portrait where the figure stand before a background of gold. The painting are called Icons. They’re not meant to be great works of art like Catholic rendition. Icons are painted by monks in deep, meditative prayer. They’re considered holy objects in themselves. They add to this incredible froth of smell, sight, and sound that is a Russian Orthodox church.
We enter one where exquisite singing radiates from the walls. Beautiful female voices singing Pachelbels's Canon. I stand in awe. It feels so magical. So religious. It makes my experience of Catholicism seems minor compared to the beauty and awe that Russian Orthodox religion holds God in. Next, I look for the speakers, because the sound quality is so perfect and it so perfectly radiates from all directions. And I’m curious to learn how the locals hid speakers among the Icons. If I could, I’d buy the CD. But as Jen points out, the music isn’t recorded. She leads me to a corner where I spy three elderly women covered in shawls, practicing as a choir. What seemed so simple to them, like a local guitar player practicing for Sunday service in Studio City, these women create music that came as close to heavenly as I’ve ever heard. I wish I could stand there for hours, breathing the incense, feeling the music, and filling my eyes with the rich, mysterious imagery of this church. But the women finished their rehearsal and we shortly leave to discover how hollow even these Vilnius churches are.
Outside, a stream of locals walk toward the church. We move with the flow when to our right, an old lady – she must have been sixty – a babushka with fat legs, round body, and a scarf around her chubby face -- seems to turn 180 degrees in mid air and slams head first into the stone pavement. She becomes still. Deathly still. Her head twisted against a nearby wall.
People stare for a moment, then resume walking to the church. Jen and I run to the woman, fearing she is dead. Next, I run into the building against which she lays, calling for help. Nobody is there. A few seconds later, I run out and find Jen with an Englishman checking the women. She is breathing but unconscious. Blood seeps from her face. The Englishman worries her neck might be broken. Jen calls to the passing Balts to help us, to call the police, or a doctor. The tall, dark Lithuanians tighten their scarves and shrug their shoulders as if hiding the women from view will cause their responsibility as human beings to also vanish – and they walk silently into the church. Leaving Jen and the Englishman to stay with the woman, I run to the local amber stores and plead with the sales girls to call the police, hospital, anything. The sales girls just shrug. They didn’t know who to call or quite frankly didn’t care. I say a woman can be dying outside. One sales girl just rolls her eyes and walks off. These Lithuanians -- warm, friendly, unique people whom I was growing to adore -- just didn’t give a shit about another human being. And most disgusting off all to me, people walking to a church to worship a being they consider to be the Son of God and teacher of compassion, would rather tighten the scarf around their neck than to take two minutes to dial their cell phone for help. (What is it about our shared culture that makes two Americans and a Brit the only ones to help this poor woman?) In that moment, Lithuania’s beauty rang as deceiving as the crumbling building Lithuanian’s idol lived in. I’ve read that Lithuanian’s suffered much under constant domination by foreign powers. I had sympathy for them before, and running back to the poor women, it all left. Why care for people who don’t care for others. The Balts got what they deserved.
The woman recovered, though her faced was gashed and bloody. Jen and I had enough of this little place. We bailed on New Years Eve plans in Vilnius and took the next overnight train to Saint Petersburg.
