VILNIUS — In Užupis, Lithuania, a gate is not just a gate.

A gate, you see, is a symbol — of barriers, of impossibilities, of divisions between people and of outdated ideas about property. A symbol that might belong in old Lithuania, but is unwelcome in Užupis, a bohemian self-proclaimed republic in the center of the former Soviet country's capital.

Not that Užupis doesn’t like its symbols — when your country is basically one big symbolic gesture, symbolism is quite important. In fact, there are symbols everywhere: The crowd-funded angel statue watching over the main square represents artistic freedom in Eastern Europe; the trout that were released into the Vilnelė River last spring are the city’s "border guards"; Užupis’ independence day is on April 1 (April Fools’ Day).

Explaining the symbolism, both welcome and unwelcome, is Žymantas Morkvėnas, who is "kind of" the republic’s environment minister. It’s a freezing March day, and we are strolling along the banks of the sparkling U-shaped river that separates Užupis from the rest of Vilnius, Lithuania’s capital. Although in reality, they’re separated by far more than that.

'Republic of values'

Užupis was founded 20 years ago by a group of artists who moved to a high-crime neighborhood of Vilnius that had been a lively Jewish area until the Holocaust, and fell into disrepair in the Soviet era. Artists and intellectuals took over and in the late '90s, declared independence and promptly set about creating a utopian society. Think Freetown Christiania in Denmark, or Montmartre in Paris.

"A republic of values," says Morkvėnas.

When I ask how they declared independence, and to whom, Morkvėnas laughs like I missed the point. "I don’t know. We just declared it."

A government was formed, spearheaded by poet and filmmaker Romas Lileikis, who became the president. An army was established (of 11 men) and a flag, currency and anthem were created.

"It is unclear whether the statehood of the Republic, recognized by no government, is intended to be serious, tongue-in-cheek, or a combination of both," Užupis' website reads.

Morkvėnas, because he is "kind of" the republic’s environment minister, was tasked with drafting an environmental declaration for the country. (How can anyone be "kind of" an environment minister? "Well, I was named it once," Morkvėnas answers.) He sat down with Lithuania’s actual environment minister, Kęstutis Navickas, at the pub that doubles as Užupis' parliament and hammered out a statement.

"It’s in the form of monologue," he says. "Like, ‘Meadow: I want to be trampled by cattle and be the home of birds.’ Things like that."

The constitution of the Republic of Užupis is equally unique — it is printed on the street, in 22 languages, on mirror-like steel tablets so you're forced to look at your reflection while reading (more symbolism). The constitution itself is either a joke, or a marvel of postmodern philosophy, or both.

Some of its 41 points are practical, bordering on political: "Everyone has the right to hot water, heating in winter and a tiled roof," and "everyone has the right to die, but this is not an obligation."

Some are more abstract: "Everyone shall remember their name," and "no one has the right to have a design on eternity."

And some are downright absurdist, as well as remarkably attentive to animals’ rights: "A dog has the right to be a dog," and "a cat is not obliged to love its owner, but must help in time of need."

Despite the republic's bohemian constitution and spirit, something may be rotten in the state of Užupis. The characteristics that make it so interesting have made it an attractive place to live — so much so that real estate prices have risen, and the type of inhabitants that can afford them has changed.

Hence, the conversation about gates.

“These would never be here before,” Morkvėnas says ruefully as he punches a code into the wrought-iron beauty that guards the office of his environmental NGO, the Baltic Environmental Forum.

Citizens tried to protest the construction of gates and new, expensive housing, Morkvėnas says. But the problem with scorning the government is not knowing how to use it when you need it. "To respond to this kind of intervention, you have to learn legal communication and bureaucracy and procedures, and you have to know the ways to complain," he says. "Which makes everything more complicated."

That means being sucked back into the world on the other side of the river. "And then there's a crisis of the whole idea," Morkvėnas adds.

But he isn’t too worried. Look at Christiania, he reassures me. Look at Montmartre. Those places are still around. Not like they were initially, sure, but still standing. And anyway, look at the rest of the Continent, with its governments and its problems and its paperwork. Užupis may not be perfect, but it beats the alternative.

When I ask Morkvėnas what the rest of the city thinks of the republic, he grins. "They think we’re all crazy."

But within the confines of the River Vilnelė, all’s well.

"Most stable government in Europe," he says.