Cycling through the world in Šnipiškės

In the public sphere, prominent personalities – the opera soloist Asmik Grigorian, clothing designer Serge Gandzumian, film director Marat Sargsyan, and TV presenter Gabrielė Martirosian – are a tiny part of Lithuania’s connection with Armenia.

When Lithuanian Grand Duke Vytautas reached the Black Sea, he not only recruited Crimean Tatars as castle defenders, employed Karaites as the most trusted guards of the Dukes, but also befriended Armenians in the battles against the Golden Horde. They helped him to communicate and reach agreements with the leaders of the local peoples, their regiments sided with the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in defeating the Crusaders, their craftsmen were prominent leather dyers, goldsmiths, spinners, and weavers. 

Just like Armenia, Lithuania did not fall into the vast expanse of the Russian Empire; both survived the Soviet terror, and Lithuania became a refuge for hundreds of Armenians after the great Spitak earthquake in 1988. The largest congregation of Armenian people gathering together at any one time occurs 98 days after Easter in Klaipėda when people gather together to celebrate the traditional Armenian ‘Vardavar’ Water Festival.  People give each other roses and douse themselves in water and pour it over each other at Vardavar to mark the Feast of the Transfiguration of the Lord, the purification of the soul.

The Armenian Apostolic Church of St. Vardan is located in a Catholic chapel rented by the Municipality. It was surrounded by offices built in Soviet times when the old fishermen’s cemetery in the suburbs of the town was built over by the parish of St Raphael’s Church. The cemetery is still marked on the map of Vilnius, although the last to be laid to rest were the Polish partisans of the Armia Krajowa (The Polish Home Army were the dominant resistance movement in German-occupied Poland during WWII) who died in 1944, marked by three metal crosses.

This is the fourth of the five colonies founded by philanthropist, banker, and entrepreneur Józef Montwiłł (during the Soviet era, these were called ‘sleeping districts’, whereas now we’d refer to them as real estate development projects). It is difficult to say where the word ‘colony’ for residential areas comes from. Maybe in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it looked like the absorption of distant territories? Maybe it was part of the concept of communal coexistence that they promoted? Maybe the middle classes of the Catholic faith who were purposely settled there were encouraged to adopt a harmonious approach to convivial living and thrive together like a vibrant colony of cooperative bees?

Vilnius, which had been expanding rapidly, needed to tame its ever-widening urban territories so it could comfortably accommodate the growing middle classes. During his travels and studies in the cities of Western Europe, Montwiłł came across the concept of model ‘garden villages’ built around factories to house the families of workers. After becoming manager of the Land Bank, he distributed plots of land purchased in the name of the bank and made low-interest loans on mortgages to well-to-do engineers, doctors, lawyers, architects, and civil servants of various institutions, all of whom had to be adherents to the Catholic faith. This was his chosen way of reducing the impact of Russification and economically enabling the changes to come.

The other colonies were built in the vicinity of Aguonų and Šaltinių Streets, the quarter around M. K. Čiurlionio, Jovaro, and J. Basanavičiaus Streets, the area around Rasų, Drujos and Balstogės Streets, and the last and the most prominent development in the triangle of Lukiškių, Kražių, and J. Savickio Streets. 

The name of the street unexpectedly extends the national diversity of the route to Finland, as in the post-war period, it was nicknamed Finns’ Street when translated directly from Russian. The real hero of the street is Shmuel Yosef Fin (or Samuel Joseph Fuenn), a scholar, the author of a monograph on the history of Jews in Vilnius, and the most active representative of the Haskalah Jewish enlightenment movement in Vilnius. He created and published the weekly magazine ‘Ha-Karmel’ or ‘The Carmel’ in the printing house he founded together with A. H. Rozenkranz. 

The Jewish Enlightenment ‘Haskalah’ (from the Hebrew for ‘wisdom’, ‘erudition’, or ‘education’) began in Berlin around 1770 as a Jewish modernisation movement. Throughout the hundred years it existed, its promoters sought to preserve Jewish identity through educational rather than religious means by promoting rational thought, as well as freedom of thought and speech. In everyday life, this was expressed through secular education, vocational and craft schools, rapprochement with Christian society, adaptable dress and knowledge of other languages while preserving group consciousness.

It is known from complaints and requests to the Vilnius Duma that the Jews of Šnipiškės owned at least six brickworks with clay and limestone mines and kilns around 1890. On the corner of Kalvarijų and Piromonto Streets, there was a one-storey public bathhouse run by Shmuel Fin (either this or another one) that drew clean water from an artesian well, yet allowed dirty water to flow downhill into the Neris through an underground pipe.

Another fascinating misunderstanding that expands the internationality of Šnipiškės is probably Vilnius’ only link to the Roman Empire. It was there that the Middle Eastern desert nomads – the Arabs, Bedouins, and later all Muslims – were called Saracens, a nickname that reached Europe after the Crusades and spread widely. Urban researchers have found no traces, evidence, or rumours about desert nomads in the area.

Official street names in honour of the place names of the Russian Empire came to the increasingly populated Šnipiškės at the end of the 19th century. This street was named after Carycin (formerly known as Tsaritsyn and later – Stalingrad); today, it is called Volgograd. When the city government was Polish between the wars, Carycino Street became Saracencka; the name was adopted by the pronunciation alone. 

For a short chronicle of the real nomads of Šnipiškės, ‘Shanghai Banzai’, Jūratė Samulionytė’s eye-opening documentary of everyday life makes for interesting viewing.

In the 19th century, when the city slipped out of the confines of the Old Town, the triangle nestled between Kalvarijų Street and the main Ukmergės Road was the spontaneous home of the Neris harbour workers, clay miners, brick and ceramic makers, vivacious traders, and chancers keen to sniff out a quick buck. Officially, the area has been called Šnipiškės for three centuries now in honour of the owner of the land, Petras Šnipka. 

The nickname ‘Shanghai’ is the result of the activities and origins of the district’s motley crew. In the vast expanse of the Russian Empire, the nickname signified ‘a gathering place’ and the area the mixed crowd arbitrarily (brazenly) inhabited. The Dragon’s Meadow, which has been enlivened with playgrounds, cosy picnic spots, and preserved as a symbol of rebirth by a speckled egg on a bassoon, has perpetuated the nickname for generations to come.

Sometimes still referred to as ‘Šiaudinė’ (‘Solomianka’), this name indicates the district’s connection with the Kalvarijų Market, which started out as a place for trading straw and hay. It was moved to the corner around 1900 by a decision of the City Council to reduce the clutter and congestion of Lukiškių Market.

This expansion from the Old Town to the far reaches of Vilnius is symbolised by the story of the house of the city’s photographer Józef Czechowicz. The building nestled at the foot of Gediminas Hill and resisted change while it was protected by the friendship of its owner and the city architect – Nikolay Chagin. However, the building was an obstacle to the redevelopment of the area near the Cathedral and was moved across the river after the death of both men. These days, the building is once again caught in the whirlwind of change: when the boundaries of the Skansen were drawn, the building was unexpectedly left outside. Maybe it’s time for some more time travel?

Šnipiškės has been called the Swedish Skansen since 1993 because it is the name of the world’s first open-air ethno-cultural museum (in a similar vein to Rumšiškės), which was founded near Stockholm. At that time, the narrow stretch of land between Kintų, Šilutės, Krokuvos, and Daugėliškio Streets was protected as a cultural asset.

The tidiest yard in the district is that of Miroslavas Bielinis, the Head of the Eldership of Skansen.  According to local hearsay, the neighbourhood is full of signs demonstrating Bielinis’ care. Before the huge changes behind the scenes in Šnipiškės, the community had to deal on its own with the surprises brought by the changing seasons. It was Bielinis who created what was dubbed the ‘road monster’ – to prevent winter slips and mishaps, a sledge was duly attached to an SUV.  A man would sit on the sledge and sprinkle sand on the slippery streets! The whole neighbourhood used to gather together at Užgavėnės (Shrove Tuesday or Mardi Gras) when the neighbours would congregate in the square between Giedraičių and Kintų Streets, surrounded by metal garages. Bielinis’ vision is that the now-demolished garages will be replaced by another family leisure space – a circular open space with a gazebo for workshops, souvenir shops, a fountain, and maybe even an observation tower. By the way, we also have Bielinis to thank for the Dragon’s egg on the wooden post in the Dragon’s Meadow – this idea of the elder is a playful nod to Shanghai.

Just as the marriage of Grand Duke Jagiełło (Jogaila) of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania to Jadwiga of Poland once steered the country’s development towards Western Europe, Krokuvos (Kraków) Street is like a threshold from buzzing Shanghai to the flower-filled and shutter-lined Skansen, the Europe of glittering glass and bicycle paths. On this street, all three recent centuries of Vilnius’ development rub shoulders, and polish their elbows together, trying to reconcile.

The whole combination of ages, generations, worldviews, and lifestyles is sensitively and mockingly woven into a single band of impressions by Pijus Čekanauskas, an artist who lives in Šnipiškės, described in Lina Laura Švedaitė’s book ‘The Secrets of Vilnius: Visions, Memories, Dreams’. He finds it fascinating that in Šnipiškės, rumours give birth to rumours, which then mix with reality, organically intertwining. Here is a plaster cast of the deceased, known to Vilnius residents and referred to by guidebooks as Šnipka, the founder of the district, dragged out of a dumpster near his house. The local social network of the neighbours of the rather colourful mixed community is also based on rumours, with two neighbours gossiping about a third, and the third gossiping about the first, and eventually the circle comes back around. 

After a bone-shaking ride along the gravel road of Krokuvos Street, the cycle paths of Kernavės Street will offer some welcome smooth respite as we ride with the breeze in our hair in the direction of the cities of northern Lithuania.

The tradition of Józef Montwiłł‘s ‘garden villages’ and ‘colonies’ (Object 2) was unexpectedly continued in the Soviet era. Immediately after the war, it was possible to get a loan to build an individual house on a free six-are plot. Initially, this was encouraged as a solution to the problem of accommodation being built by the inhabitants themselves, but in 1962, it was banned as a waste of precious urban land. A large-scale apartment building was a much more effective solution to this problem.

This concentration of individual houses built in the Soviet-era is the largest of the nine scattered in the depths of Antakalnis, on the outskirts of Šeškinė, in the triangle of Rasų and Liepkalnio Streets, in the north of Žvėrynas, near Saltoniškės, on the roadside of S. Batoro Street on the way to Naujoji Vilnia, and in Pavilniai, Žemieji Paneriai, and Naujoji Vilnia themselves. There are more than a hundred of them in these districts alone out of around 500 in the whole of Vilnius.

Like everything else in Soviet times, the designs of the houses were typical. It is, therefore, easy to recognise them unless the new owners have improvised: raising the roofs, enlarging the windows, or adding extensions or terraces on all sides. On Švenčionių Street, houses with the years of construction (1952, 1955, etc.) indicated in the attic can still be found. 

Geologists recognise the Neris Valley as an ancient one. It is a 3-5 km wide strip of land eroded by water streams from the lagoon, which was formed by the melting and retreat of a glacier that stopped here 16,000 years ago. At that time, the Neris was intensively changing and shaping the river bed, eroding its slopes, and laying down sandy deposits, thus forming a deep, wide, and undulating terraced valley. These lakes are the glacial waters left behind on the terrace. They are scattered in a long line from Ozo Park all the way to Boris Nemtsov Square in Žvėrynas.

In 2020, they became a place of summer joy, relaxation, and lazy days out, as they have been cleaned and freed from the undergrowth, opened up in all their glory, with paths for walking and exploring, a series of planks, logs, and pontoon walkways and bridges for fishing and swimming, playgrounds for children, and zones for sports fans. The place is easily accessible with a convenient link between the two arteries of the city – Ozo Street and Konstitucijos Avenue.

The Japanese Garden is a continuation of the Neris Old River Bed Park. Here, the same lakes are connected by footbridges, surrounded by stones, and old and newly planted trees (about 700 in total) in the tradition of the Japanese tradition.

The gardens are a way of getting to know how different cultures relate to nature. Japanese gardens were created with respect for the almighty forces of nature – water, stone, wood. These three elements were combined in the gardens to recreate the landscape of Japan’s seas, rivers, waterfalls, mountains and forests. There are three types of Japanese gardens: water gardens, gardens where water bodies are imitated by gravel paths and plazas, and tea ceremony gardens, which are calming and soothing for the long meditative ritual of tea. The Japanese Garden in Vilnius also hosts traditional tea ceremonies, with areas for respite and quiet relaxation. 

The Vilnius Japanese Garden celebrates its birthday on 29 April. In Japan, this day is marked in the national calendar and is known as the Day of Greenery, a day to thank the deities for giving life to the Earth and to admire the greenery.

The northern route, which began with the Green Bridge in the 20th century, brought the three Baltic States – Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia – together as if on a spur. The last 250 years have seen all three tossed and turned by very similar waves of challenges and triumphs – from the national revival underground in Tsarist Russia, to the independence that exploded after the First World War in 1918, to the terror of the Nazis and the Soviets that ended the Baltic Way. In 1989, 50 years after the Molotov-Ribbentrop protocols were secretly signed that divided Europe, 2 million Lithuanians, Latvians and Estonians lined up to turn their backs on the Soviet past and together took a broad step towards the West. A step along the path of Freedom, which they continue to follow and defend at every opportunity.

The green stretch of the Old Ukmergė Road near Swedbank is transformed into a green staging post for respite and days out spent on the grass by the Chiune Sugihara Sakura Garden. It is as if it delineates the temporal boundaries of the changes on the right bank of the Neris – from the first trade route northwards to the modern international business links immortalised in skyscrapers.

The garden is home to around 200 Sakura trees, donated by the Japanese government, which were planted in 2001 to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the birth of Japanese diplomat and Righteous Among the Nations Chiune Sugihara. This garden has the most photos and posts on social media, as it is the first in the whole city to record the flowering of trees in spring. This is how Vilnius residents, perhaps without knowing it, celebrate the ‘hanami’ festival of watching the Sakura blossom with the Japanese.

In Japan, the cherry blossom, so briefly showered with its abundant blossom, symbolises the fragility of life and the ferocity of beauty. This symbol of Japanese nature also illustrates the short but rich life of the samurai, and was painted on the planes of suicide kamikaze pilots during the Second World War. It is said that Sakura trees are the most beautiful bloomers and soldiers the most beautiful lives.