Forty-one rights, read standing up

The constitution is less a legal document than a humanist joke. Its authors, Romas Lileikis — the republic's president — and foreign minister Tomas Čepaitis, reportedly dashed it off in about three hours over one summer afternoon in 1998, after Lileikis turned up complaining of no hot water. That grumble survives as the second article, granting everyone the right to hot water, winter heating and a tiled roof.↗↗

The 41 clauses mix the tender and the absurd. "A person has the right to live next to the Vilnelė, and the Vilnelė to flow next to a person," the first reads. There is the right to make mistakes, to be alone, to be insignificant and unknown, to be lazy, to cry, to doubt, to believe. There is the right to be happy and the equal right to be unhappy; the right to understand and the right to understand nothing at all. The animals get a voice too — "a dog has the right to be a dog," while "a cat is not obliged to love its master, but must help him in a difficult moment." (As the founders put it, the president is a dog person and the foreign minister a cat person, which is why each wrote the rights of his favourite animal.)↗↗

It closes with a trio of gentle commands that sum up the Užupian temperament: "Don't win. Don't be defeated. Don't give up."↗

The Avenue of Constitutions

What began as a single plaque — first hung on the wall of the Užupis cafe, birthplace of the district's "Revolution of Angels" — grew into a whole row of panels along the right-hand side of Paupio Lane. The text is laser-engraved onto large mirrored metal rectangles, so as you read the articles you also see yourself and the street reflected in the wall.↗↗

Each new language is added as a separate unveiling, usually sponsored by the relevant embassy, and the list keeps growing — by the republic's own count well over forty, from English, French, German and the languages of neighbouring Poland, Belarus and Latvia to Yiddish, Hebrew, Hindi, Sanskrit, Kazakh, Korean, Japanese, Irish, Esperanto and even Latin. The translations turn a local quirk into something oddly universal, which is precisely the point.↗↗

The wall is not an isolated stop but a route. The lane it lines leads onward into the heart of the republic, ending at the Angel of Užupis — a four-metre bronze Archangel Gabriel by sculptor Romas Vilčiauskas, standing on a globe and raising his trumpet from a tall column. Erected in 2002 for the republic's fifth anniversary, the angel has become the district's emblem and a natural place to pause after reading the constitution.↗↗

Wandering beyond the wall

The constitution is the anchor, but Užupis is meant to be explored at a slow, wandering pace. To enter the "republic" you cross the Užupis Bridge over the Vilnelė, a prime spot in Vilnius for love locks; beneath the bridge, if the water level allows, swings a Swing of Destiny and the bronze Mermaid of Užupis watches from a niche in the quay. Legend warns that if you stare into her eyes too long you'll never want to leave.↗↗

Around you are cobbled lanes, peeling walls hung with art, the ever-changing sculptures of the Užupis Art Incubator, the tiny St. Bartholomew's Church with its hilltop view, the leafy Bernardine Cemetery, and the quiet wooden houses of Baltasis Skersgatvis. It's a neighbourhood where the atmosphere, not any single sight, is the attraction — relaxed, slightly scruffy and stubbornly itself.↗

Visiting

The constitution wall is an open-air installation on a public street, so it can be seen at any time and costs nothing — make it part of a wider stroll through Užupis rather than a ticketed stop. The most festive time to come is 1 April, Užupis Independence Day, when the "border" on the bridge is humorously guarded and visitors can have their passports stamped, and beer reportedly flows from a fountain beneath the angel.↗↗↗