Vilnius

Vilnius is a baroque daydream that took itself lightly enough to allow, across one small river, a self-proclaimed republic of artists with its own constitution — including the rights to be unhappy, to love your cat, and to be misunderstood. The old town, one of Europe's largest, counts its skyline in church towers; Užupis counts its citizens in whoever crossed the bridge today.

The sensible traveller climbs Gediminas' tower for the red-roof census, walks the old town courtyard by courtyard — the university's arcades hide sixteen —, and pays respects at the Gates of Dawn where the golden Madonna collects kneelers from the street below. Then the bridge into Užupis: read the constitution bolted to the wall in thirty languages, get the passport stamp at the info kiosk, argue with the angel statue.

The Guide's honesty: the KGB museum in the old headquarters is heavy and necessary — take it seriously and schedule lightness after —; cepelinai dumplings are a commitment the size of their zeppelin name: share the first order; and the hot-air balloons that float over the old town at dusk are real and bookable — one of Europe's few capitals that permits it.