The Secret to Great Travel (or How I Fell in Love with Vilnius)

It’s time to ditch the bucket list.

Seriously: the concept of bucket-list travel is just setting us up for disappointment. We make these ambitious lists of places we want to see before we die, and we elevate said destinations to an inflated level of awe and myth and reverence. Reality will almost always fall short—especially because most of the places on our bucket list are probably on the bucket lists of billions of other people.

In other words, they’re practically guaranteed to be tourist-congested nightmares.

It’s why Paris Syndrome exists—and Jerusalem Syndrome, too; even the inevitable Disney World meltdowns experienced by young children, for that matter. Romanticizing a place before you’ve even arrived—before you’ve experienced the reality of it—is just a recipe for heartbreak and letdown. (The same, by the way, is true of pretty much anything: romantic partners, jobs, friends, parties, that last five pounds.)

And places ravaged by over-tourism aren’t just crowded: they lose some of their spirit, their essence, in the frenzy to cater and adapt to the onslaught of the hordes. Stupid tour buses lumbering through the streets, ugly storefronts with overpriced tourist trinkets crowding their poorly made wares out onto sidewalks, scammers aggressively hawking bullshit to the naïve masses—tourism of this sort removes us from any real, authentic sense of place, makes everything feel interchangeable, uniform, stale. It’s soul-sucking.

Another reason I think bucket-list travel can be so disappointing is that, more often than not, these destinations are expensive—and if you’ve spent a lot of money, your expectations will inevitably be a little higher. Take Paris, for example: when I visited Paris in my 20s, I could never afford to stay in the city. I’d book a hotel out in the suburbs and commute in every day. I’d dine on kebabs and gyros down alleyways in the 5th arrondissement. I’d buy cheap champagne from the liquor store rather than visit some trendy bar. Maybe that’s why the city’s never soured for me—I kept my budget and expectations relatively low. (Another important factor: my first couple visits to Paris were in my teens. At that age, I hadn’t accumulated enough life experience to build up expectations. And, like most teenagers, I was a cynical asshole. I got to know it without romanticizing it.)

But I’m going to propose something—a suggestion that I think would make traveling much more enjoyable:

Stop visiting the places at the top of your list. Start visiting the places that aren’t even on your list. Tear your bucket list to shreds.

Take a more haphazard approach to travel. Set out on the road without a plan. Pick a random place on a map. Travel in the off-season. Book a flight to an unexpected destination simply because it’s cheap.

That last suggestion, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up visiting Lithuania in November 2018.

*Strolling through Kalnai Park in Vilnius, Lithuania*

I booked a last-minute ticket from Amman to Vilnius for 30 Euros roundtrip, without any kind of plan or second-guessing. I didn’t even really know anything about Vilnius, except that I hadn’t ever been there, which, in my mind, is always a good enough reason to visit a place.

With no expectations, and only a limited amount of hastily conducted research, I set off for a quick weekend in Lithuania’s quaint little capital.

I check into Bernardinu B&B House, in the heart of the city’s Old Town, late on Friday night. Situated in an old 18th-century building constructed around a large courtyard, Bernardinu B&B is perhaps one of the most charming places I’ve ever stayed. My room was once the building’s old guard quarters, now converted into a quaint two-story guesthouse, with many of the original architectural details still intact, including the vaulted wooden ceilings. It is such a perfectly warm and cozy place to rest my head each night after long days out in the cold.

In winter, many Eastern European cities can feel quite dreary: days are short. Skies are overcast. People shuffle along hurriedly, scampering from one place to the next, eager to get out of the cold. But even in the most bitingly frigid weather, Vilnius has an indefatigable spirit: a sense of resilience, of playful contrarianism, of intellectualism that doesn’t take itself too seriously, of reverence for tradition, of rebelliousness, of humor… the city feels one of a kind.

Vilnius is relatively small for a European capital, and during my trip, I mostly hang around the Old Town and Užupis (more on that quirky neighborhood shortly).

On my first morning, after enjoying the large breakfast spread that is delivered to my doorstep, I head to Kalnai Park to seek out a panoramic spot where I can take in the whole city at once: I find it up near the Three Crosses Monument. After a stop at Gediminas Tower on my way back down, I make my way over to Užupis.

Covering less than one square kilometer, Užupis is a self-declared independent state—and although it is largely unrecognized, it is nonetheless considered one of the smallest republics in the world.

It is a republic of artists, poets, musicians, filmmakers, and rebels. The entire neighborhood feels like a cross between art studio, exhibition space, and creative hub. Art is on display everywhere: along the river, in countless art galleries, through the streets, on walls and sidewalks, down little alleyways, up staircases.

The Republic of Užupis has a constitution, displayed in numerous languages along the wall of an alleyway; it is quirky and playful and poetic, ultimately underscoring the fiercely independent and free-thinking nature of the population. (In short: in Užupis, you are free to live and die as you see fit.)

*Article 3: “Everyone has the right to die, but this is not an obligation.”*

Few places on Earth feel quite so Bohemian, and unless you’re an absolute fascist, it’s impossible not to fall completely under the spell of this charming little nation.

After a morning of exploring, having worked up an appetite, I stroll back over to the Old Town and head straight to Alinė Leičiai, a cozy, rustic-style pub that serves traditional Lithuanian bar food and a great selection of local beers and wines. Both the food and the beer are hearty and filling—perfect for warming up from the inside out.

*Fried bread, cepelinai (meat-filled potato dumpling), and beer at Alinė Leičiai*

I linger over a couple beers, letting the food settle and enjoying the warmth, before making my way back out into the streets and across town to the Museum of Occupations and Freedom Fights. Located in what was once an old KGB building (with the old KGB prison still kept intact in the basement), this museum is perhaps the best example of the incredible spirit and resilience of the Lithuanian people, detailing their fierce and continuous resistance throughout the Nazi and Soviet occupations of the 20th century. (In the months—and years—that followed, I ended up visiting several other so-called ‘dark tourism’ sites around the world. You can read more about my exploration of human tragedies here. It’s not quite as bleak and depressing as it sounds. I swear.)

*An old Soviet prison in what is now the Museum of Occupations and Freedom Fights*

For dinner, I head back to Užupis, to a delightful place called Sweet Root that has sadly closed in the years since my visit. The meal is an exquisite ten-course affair, complete with wine pairings, with a focus on using local, seasonal ingredients to create elevated dishes. It is a marathon of a dining experience: with no company but my own—and no roaming or Wi-Fi on my phone—I am able to fully immerse myself in my meal, without any distractions.

I sleep with my stomach full, my mind and body exhausted, in the warmth of my lodgings, under heavy blankets. It is utterly restful.

*The end of a magical meal at Sweet Root—and a magical day in Vilnius*

The next day is Sunday, and after breakfast in my room, I let myself wander aimlessly through the Old Town. That’s how I end up at the Gate of Dawn, the last remaining portal of the ten gates that once encircled Vilnius. Over the archway is a small chapel and shrine; beneath it are churchgoers braving the cold in order to worship. Despite not being religious myself (although I did grow up Catholic), I find the service breathtakingly beautiful. I stop and admire the melodic hymns for a while before continuing through the gate. As I walk, I begin to notice throngs of old women heading in a particular direction, and I quickly find myself caught up in shuffle, curious to discover where, exactly, they are off to with such vigor.

I soon have my answer when I wind up at Halės Turgus, one of the city’s oldest markets. Food markets always provide one of the most insightful lenses into the spirit of a community, and my visit to Halės Turgus is no exception. I mime my way through exchanges with stall-keepers who attempt to converse with me in Russian (which I do not speak, but given my fairly obvious Eastern European roots—an old lady at a market in Munich once told me that my face is very slawisch—it’s a common misconception); they let me sample sausages and pickled vegetables and different kinds of honey. I leave with a bag full of long, ropey kindziukas sausage, a small tub of pickled cabbage, and a jar of dark, rich buckwheat honey.

*An assortment of pickled vegetables at Halės Turgus*

I spend the rest of the day weaving around the city—past the bastion of the Vilnius Defensive Wall; near Town Hall, where dancers from Poland perform a traditional routine for a large crowd of curious onlookers; down Literatų gatvė (Literati Street), an homage to around 200 writers with connections to Lithuania. I lunch on mushroom soup with pumpkin oil and pickled herring and gooseberry wine.

The day continues on with aimless wandering, into shops and past monuments, down narrow alleyways and through large open squares. For dinner, I crave something less heavy and filling, and so I find a small sushi restaurant and enjoy a few light bites. I then take a nighttime stroll back through the Old Town, and after my food has settled, I find myself at AJ Šokoladas, a resplendent little chocolate restaurant.

Let me preface my review of AJ Šokoladas with an important piece of information: I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I rarely crave chocolate, and would rather fill up on salty, savory foods than waste my time with dessert.

With that in mind, let me tell you: AJ Šokoladas is hands-down the best chocolate I’ve ever tasted. I enjoy a small cup of intensely rich hot chocolate before asking the woman at the counter to prepare a couple boxes of assorted chocolates for me to take back home. The sheer variety is astounding, and aside from the one filled with blue cheese (oh, I kid you not), they are all exquisite. For chocolate lovers, this place puts Vilnius in ‘bucket list’ territory—but the kind of bucket list I might actually approve of.

The next morning I visit Užupis once more, trekking up to the Bernardine Cemetery (I love visiting Eastern European cemeteries, and I cannot begin to explain this weird little fascination of mine) and then meandering about a bit more before packing up my things and jetting back to Amman.

Let me be clear: Vilnius was not life-changing—not in the way that, say, Laos was. But it has, along with other quiet, off-the-beaten-path destinations I’ve visited, helped transform the way I look at travel. When people ask me to list my top must-visit countries, or the cities I’m just dying to check out, I struggle to answer. I have no big bucket-list destinations. I just want to see as much of this world as I can. I want to explore every nook and crevasse and wander down every alleyway. I want to visit sleepy towns with immeasurable charm. I want to hike every forest and jungle and desert. I want to find beauty and warmth and hospitality and delicious food and unique wonders in unexpected places. It’s getting harder—with the world getting smaller and whatnot—but Vilnius shows me that it’s still possible.