A small creek is not usually an international border.

Just the same, I cross a bridge over a… A small creek is not usually an international border.

Just the same, I cross a bridge over a stream and enter a new country: Uzupis. It won’t be found on globes, and the World Almanac has no listing of it. In fact, the only map it will appear on is one of Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania.

When Lithuania broke away from the Soviet Union in 1991, the bohemian residents of Uzupis didn’t stop there. The 148-acre neighborhood declared independence from Lithuania. After a statue of Vladimir Lenin was struck down, a Vilnius artist commissioned a statue of leftist rock star Frank Zappa. The spirit of independence embodied by Zappa encouraged the borough of artists and musicians to follow suit.

Walking up the one main street in the “republic,” I can see the sun’s glare on a silver Lenin head displayed in the window of an antique shop. It appears to be the only homage the nation pays to the hero of the Soviet Union.

It is early May, and the streets are warm with sun and celebration. Although the signs are scarce in Uzupis, Vilnius is celebrating Lithuania’s recent admission into the European Union. The E.U.’s flag, next to the red, green and yellow of Lithuania’s own, flies in the breeze coursing above the Merkys River. Although there are no real changes yet, the inclusion underscores Vilnius’ new race into the future.

On the north bank of the Merkys, sleek, silver skyscrapers sit next to wide, turreted castles. A food court is built into the old wall of a cathedral. The ancient welcomes the modern to sit by its side, with the scars of Soviet rule still evident between them.

One of the bridges across the river was designed with realist sculptures of Soviet-era commoners. The structure stands out, especially with colorful graffiti on the side. One of the figures is a Soviet soldier of World War II.

“I met him once,” Arturas Baranauskas says as he stands in front of the large statue. “He beat me half to death.”

Baranauskas is one of many ethnic Lithuanians who suffered under Soviet rule.

“We were not warriors,” Baranauskas says. “Our only crime was being between Germany and Russia.”

The German invasion of Lithuania in 1941, and the subsequent occupation by the Soviet army in 1945, brought an end to the nation’s brief independence of the early 20th century. German forces killed approximately 200,000 people, deporting thousands more to concentration camps. Soviets, under Stalin, killed about the same number of people. Between 1940 and 1953, Lithuania lost nearly a third of its population.

“We could only assume the world was coming to an end,” says Nili Langbarte, who fought as a “partisan” — a Lithuanian nationalist — against both the Germans and the Soviets. “And then, after all that, even [the Lithuanians] hate us.”

Langbarte, like many Lithuanians, is Jewish. Nearly 90 percent of Lithuanian Jews were killed during World War II. But the majority of Lithuanians are Catholics, and the two groups have a centuries-old history of dislike and mistrust.

“My father used to say, ‘The Germans would not have been so terrible if they had not been looking for the Jews’,” says Petras Terinas, a shopkeeper near Ausros Vartu, in the Old Town. “I don’t believe that, but I know a lot who do.”

Despite the feelings of anti-Semitism among some Lithuanians, Vilnius hosts a large Jewish community, a haunting Holocaust museum and a synagogue. At the moment, the synagogue is closed. It frequently closes and reopens because of disagreements among Jewish sects concerning methods of worship.

Most Catholic Lithuanians seem to treat the Jewish community with a forced ignorance, not really caring what they do one way or another. There are bigger concerns in the works for Lithuania.

Borders to Poland and Latvia, also new members of the European Union, are open. The community of nations is growing, but countries not in the European Union, like Belarus to the south, are shut out by tightly guarded borders. Visitors to Belarus need to fulfill complicated requirements, such as visas, medical insurance requests and proof of residence.

Unless you go the “Livijos” way.

Livijos, who owns a hostel in Vilnius’ Old Town, offers a unique service to select guests. For a small fee, he will drive a few thrill-seekers south into the forest to the Belarusian frontier. There, the guests will run across the border and then try to get back to Livijos’ Peugeot Partner hatchback before the Belarusian guards catch them.

A few Australian travelers take Livijos up on the offer, and they run back across the border to his car at top speed, yelling and panting. There are sounds of dogs barking and guards shouting to each other in Belarusian. Once inside the car, Livijos takes off down the road.

“We barely made it, man,” one Australian says. “But we got into Belarus. A few meters of it, anyway.”

“We all used to be one land,” Livijos says of Lithuania and Belarus. “Thank the European Union for giving a little excitement to the visitors.”