I recently attended Lithuania's first-ever vegetarian festival, held in the heart of downtown Vilnius. Interestingly and tellingly, it wasn't really about vegetarianism: More than half of the vendors were promoting something not strictly vegetarianism-related, but more homeopathic-ish, like head-massage technique, or the activities of the national grass academy. There was some low-intensity, cute protestation: Young children and teenagers were dressed as animals—though mostly as animals, curiously enough, that no one here would ever imagine eating, like kangaroos, or, in one magnificent case, a dragon—and carried slogans (in Lithuanian) such as "Why Are You Behaving So Awful?"

This cuteness did not extend to the main event. About 15 young ladies in nothing but their underwear arranged themselves in two rows on a raised stage, supine, bums down, developed chests up. The stage's floor, girls and all, was then layered with saran-wrap, after which an exaggerated sale sticker, announcing the price of human meat per kilo, plus some statistic on annual animal deaths, was slapped on the corner. Paint was then dribbled all over the package, presumably to represent blood. (I say presumably because the paint was of a decidedly pink hue, not red, which I presume was either an oversight or a nod to aesthetic sensibilities or squeamishness.) All subsequent presentations had no visible connection to vegetarianism: Indian dance routine, Chau gong performance, improv sketch group in overalls...

The salient point here is that Lithuanian vegetarianism isn't yet robust enough to support its own festival. It's invariably married to some "greater" cause, like general holistic health (what Lithuanians call "ecology"), or standard hippiedom, or something vaguely Eastern. The enthusiasm is there, but it's not useful for much beyond bluntly "raising awareness." There's no real dialogue yet—just some mostly ignored shouting and buckets of pink paint.

NEXT: Yoga, factory farming, and other reasons for the cultural change

What was also evident at the festival is just how peripheral vegetarianism is here. Most passersby were confused and/or titillated by the human meat display (which lasted about 90 seconds; the Lithuanian October isn't very forgiving), and the intended message seemed to sail past most. But, as a girl in a cow costume with distractingly large udders emphasized, any interest is good interest.

Menachem Kaiser

Older Lithuanians were barely represented at the festival. This is perhaps the most defining characteristic of vegetarianism in this country: the impassable generational divide. Anyone raised pre-independence doesn't really have a context for vegetarianism, because, as was repeatedly explained to this spoiled American, decent food selection was, for the masses, an unimaginable luxury. (Although some Lithuanians serving in the Russian army became vegetarians by default—the meat was barely edible.) Unnecessary choosiness is, to the older generation, radically stupid. A mother of a pair of adorable protesting chickens explained that while her children are vegetarians at home, they eat meat at their grandmother's. It's not worth the fight. Jurate, a festival volunteer, went full veggie at 15, and her parents dragged her to monthly doctor visits to make sure she wasn't killing herself. They also warned her, as she helpfully translates, "Your boobs won't grow up!"