Storytime Tuesday: Hans Dix Studies Abroad, Hilarity Ensues Pt. 1

A part of me that I don’t cover nearly enough on this site is the time that I’ve spent overseas.


As much as I love America and the awesome dysfunctional shit I get up to on the regular, as well as the many awesome domestic travel opportunities I’ve had, I had to take it across the Atlantic for some time.  I’ve traveled extensively throughout Europe while I was working on my dissertation at German university back when I was 20.


Now, it’s not crazy that most of you don’t understand how college in Germany works.  Basically here in America, teachers hold your dick throughout most of the material, give you study guides, put notes online, are always in touch through email and office hours, etc.  That and classes are regularly scheduled, as in 2-4 times a week.


In Germany, it’s basically the academic equivalent of throwing you to the proverbial wolves, handing you a butter knife, and telling you “Fight your way out.  Also, fuck you.”  You’re lucky if your class meets more than 4-5 times a SEMESTER.  Teachers have office hours maybe once a month, and appointments need to be made like a week ahead of time, which are subject to cancellation at their discretion at any time.  Also, they don’t really teach.  They hold a few seminars, tell you what books you’re gonna need, assign groups if there’s a project, and then pull down their pants and moon you with “fuck you” written on their ass cheeks.  Okay, that last part isn’t totally true, but they might as well because you basically feel as if they did.  Professors in Europe, Germany in particular, aren’t there to teach you the material.  They are there to outline the class, and judge the shit out of your hard work.  They are self-esteem terrorists.


While dealing with that load of bullshit during the week, it makes it ever more tempting to use the weekend to get up to some shenanigans.  Only in Europe, that doesn’t mean pregaming at an apartment, getting on a bus, and fucking around at a local bar or fraternity house for a few hours.  It means rounding up a few buddies, booking a stupid cheap ticket on Ryanair or Easyjet, and flying off to a foreign country in search of exotic booze and fun times.  This resulted in easily some of the best weekends of my life, a few of which I’ll never speak of again and will adamantly take to the grave, but some of which are just too entertaining not to be written for the world to see.


This will be a three part series.  On the menu this week:


Hans Dix Visits Italy; Trolls Italians, Fucks Their Bitch

People who know me personally know that my personality has a habit of conflicting with the way I look.  I’m a tall dude, obsessed with lifting, and am often referred to as good looking.  Many people expect me to carry myself with that “pretty boy aimlessness” of a dude who doesn’t really need to try in life to get what he wants and can just kind of coast along.


Sure, I can put on this front in a heartbeat and play it off perfectly.  I’ve been in several bar fights, fucked plenty of smokeshows, and was in the top fraternity on my campus.  It’s fun, and I have no problem with it.


But deep down I am an absolute nerd.  I’ve seen each star wars movie at least 5 times.  I read books.  I played excessive amounts of video games (and still do).  I grew up on misc on, Reddit, 4chan (not so much anymore) and still check them out.  I could go on, but you probably catch my drift.  Growing up as a foreign kid forces perspective on you, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way.


However, the rare mix of these two personalities manifests itself in extremely self-amusing, aggressive, and almost antisocial behavior sometimes.  Especially when I’m wasted.  I troll people because years of shitposting on image boards molded my young teenage brain into somehow appreciating that fucked up habit.  And a prime example of this was when I visited Milan, Italy for a weekend of drinking Chianti, eating authentic pizza, and hitting on beautiful Italian models.


Buckle up, this one’s ignorant.  This is a story I have yet to share with anyone outside my immediate friend group, mainly for humility reasons.



This happened during the second semester I spent in Europe around mid-May.  I was pissed, because I wanted to go see my aforementioned favorite soccer team play Napoli back in September of the previous year, but that fell through because I had a giant project to finish up and present.  It’s whatever, Italy wasn’t going anywhere.


My buddies and I decide to hit up Milan for two reasons.  First because literally the last place I wanted to go in the world was Rome, because while I hate to be a total buzzkill, that city is a massively overrated tourist trap (plus I’d already been there).  If you like getting your pockets picked clean by gypsies and and paying a 400% premium on everything, go to Rome.  And second because I didn’t want to spend a single minute longer on the airplane that I needed to.  I wanted the shortest flight possible, and yes that played a major role in what city we decided to go to.  Milan punched that bill fold perfectly.  Plus, my European buddies mentioned numerous times that Milan was a major fashion industry hub.  That meant models.  Ayyy lmao.


We arrive in Milan and the weather is gorgeous.  It was the exact opposite of touching down in Ukraine.  I felt alive, and so ready to see what this weekend had in store.  My buddies and I hailed a taxi to take us into the city, but we didn’t even have him take us directly to the hotel because we were all too eager to stop and eat pizza and wash it down with wine.  We literally spotted a restaurant at the side of the road, yelled at him to stop the cab, threw a collective 50 euro in his lap (for probably a 25 euro ride) and just booked it and sat down in the outside patio section of the restaurant with our suitcases and everything.  As soon as we sat down, my buddy that spoke Italian just barked at the waitress whatever was Italian for “3 margherita pizzas and a fuck ton of house wine.”  Ten minutes later he came back with three piping hot pizzas and giant bottle of Chianti.  This weekend was off to a fucking phenomenal start.


After having successfully polished off three jugs of Chianti wine, delicious pizza, and gotten our fill of harassing people walking down the street, we made our way on foot to the hotel.  This was the trip we had all decided to go all in on (financially) so we had upgraded from our original plan of just defaulting to a hostel.  We get to the beautiful hotel in the inner ring of Milan and hustle up to scope our room.  It’s sick.  This heightens our spirits even more.


*Fast forward through settling in, grabbing booze from the store, and pregaming on our balcony*


We head out to the club feeling on top of the world.  The vibes were great, the weather was amazing, and the city was buzzing.  We had pockets full of euros, ready to take over, and trotted down the street like we all had keys to the damn city.




We hit up the first club we saw that looked like it was bumping.  Rolled up like we owned the joint, as is tradition.  We hit the bar and order a couple of drinks that immediately set us back 40 euros, but we didn’t care because the vibe at the club was tip top.


I scan the room with my friends looking for groups of girls to terrorize, but my 6’4″ ass was able to see over pretty much everyone in the room and I spotted her.  A beautiful girl with brown hair and a short, black dress, who was apparently standing all by herself.  I abandon my friends in one swift motion and go to make my move.  I approach her and immediately get great vibes.  Can’t remember exactly what I was saying, but she spoke great English and we were getting along swimmingly.


Then came the collateral cock block.


A dude came up and yelled something at her in Italian.  He looked like he had just wandered off the boardwalk from Jersey City.  Pushing 5’8″, tight ass jeans, slicked hair, some weird designed T shirt that only Randy Couture or Shogun Rua could actually pull off, and a sparkly industrial piercing straight from a 15 year old angsty teenager.  From what I could gather, and the occasional glance at me, he was trying to tell her to quit talking to me.  But she was standing tall, telling the dude off and saying she could do what she wanted.  My Italian is rusty (I speak a bit of Italian) but I could gather that she was telling him how I’m an American and she’s very attracted to me.  Ayy lmao.  The dude left and went back to his friends, who were equally as short and poorly dressed.


As I kept talking to this girl, who it turns out is actually a model, she says something along the lines of “we should move, my friends are trying to pull me away from you.”  I look over and her words are confirmed.  Who do these Italian manlets think they are?  What, they think they’re better’n me?  Just because their country supplied the world with Mario Andretti, Jersey Shore and the virtue of laziness that the big bad American is “beneath them?”  Aw hail naw.  As they continued to giggle among themselves like a group of 7th grade girls, obviously talking about yours truly (deducted from the fact that they kept pointing and staring daggers at me), I opened the doors of aggression and gave them a simple, swift double armed pelvic thrust ala Jon “Bones” Jones.




I keep talking to this girl, and in the corner of my eye I see these dudes getting more and more flustered.  How dare I, some big uncultured American, come in and hit on “their” girl.  Fuck em, she was digging me.  She apparently loved my “American accent” which is literally just normal English with my very slight Chicago twang.  Side note to the study abroad crowd – European girls do dig that shit.  Most of them dream of visiting America some day, and an American dude is the next best thing.  She eventually got so riled up she couldn’t take it anymore, she decided she must have me.  She told me she lived only a few blocks down the road, and at that point I knew it was game time.  I turned to the Italian gaggle of gossip girls, gave them a firm military salute, and gave them a couple solid crotch tugs.  I’m now probably on some Mafia hit list.


This girl wasn’t kidding when she said she lived close by.  The walk to her place was barely 10 minutes, and probably would have been shorter if I hadn’t stopped to drunkenly chop it up with the street pizza vendor who didn’t speak a lick of English.  I was loving life and the city of Milan, with a beautiful girl on my arm.  The world was a beautiful place.  We get to her place and head up .


Now, this girl was a supermodel, but not like supersupermodel status, as in if I said her name you most likely wouldn’t know who she is unless you’re very involved in the fashion world (in which case, you’re probably reading the wrong web site).  But she was supermodel enough to have a high rise apartment in almost the dead center of Milan (that shit ain’t cheap).  Although I was fairly sure that she wasn’t making all this money herself and definitely had a sugar daddy or two.  Maybe she took a few outings to Dubai to get pooped on by oil sheikhs.  Who knows.


As soon as I walk in, I beeline for the window because I just had to take in the view.  It was ridiculous.  I could see the city, the mountains in the background, and the people down on the road going about their drunken business.  I briefly forgot all about the fact that there was a beautiful girl behind me that wanted me to take her like Christian Grey on 300mg of Viagra.  When I finally came to however, I turned around, grabbed her, kissed her deeply, and went to work.


I decided I wanted to continue checking out the view.  I’m not sure what floor we were on, but it was definitely a 20something.  Not skyscraper high, but high enough to feel like a total big shot.  There aren’t too many super high rises in Milan anyway.  After we got naked and foreplay was done, I picked her up, made her bend over against the window, and fucked her in standing doggy while continuing to overlook my new kingdom.


As I was banging this Italian model up against the giant window of her high rise Milan apartment, a feeling came over me.  Something clicked in my brain, and in a window of about 5 seconds, all the bad shit that had ever happened to me in my life flashed in front of my eyes in an almost unpleasant fashion.  And then they were gone.  Done.  Dissolved.  All my insecurities, all my anxieties, all my past shortcomings.  I was over them.  It’s like my brain decided “alright fuck this, look at what we’re doing right now, we’re cleaning house” and tossed all the negative energy in my brain out of my ears never to be seen again.  This is still one of most vividly memorable moments of my life, where I had absolute clarity and was at peace with the world.  It was a feeling I had never felt before and don’t know if I’ll ever feel again, but there was only one way to describe it: breathtakingly beautiful.


The sex in and of itself was nothing to write home about on my end.  Usual gorilla routine.  But apparently Italian men don’t know how to use a dick, because this girl would not stop fawning over me afterwards, purring in her extremely sexy Italian accent how amazing I was.  It was pretty cool, but I was too busy standing butt ass naked in front of her window, ravaging a bag of her pistachio nuts, randomly pointing out shit and demanding to know what it was.  Drunk Hans doesn’t care post coitus.


The story doesn’t end there.  I crashed at her place, in her king size bed, in her bedroom that was roughly the size of my entire apartment, and also had full window view of the city.  It was like 5am when we finally crashed so I didn’t know whether to just stare out the window contemplating life for the next few hours or actually catch a few hours of sleep.  I figured I’d seen enough of the Alps for one day and decided to call it a night.  Crashed.


We wake up at like 11am and it’s surprisingly not as awkward as I thought it might be.  She was very lucid, recounting the night before fondly.  Overall really cool girl to be honest.  Plus something about that Italian accent just does it for me.  Anyway, after a quick morning pow pow I humbly ask how I can get back to my hotel.  She says she can drive me there, but she’s hungry and wants to get food on the way.  Fine by me, I’m pretty hungry too.  We head down to the underground garage.


As we approach her car I’m looking mostly at my phone texting my buddies where the fuck they are at, until she stops and unlocks a car.  I look up and I about lose my shit because what is in the parking spot?  An Aston Martin Vanquish.  A FUCKING ASTON MARTIN VANQUISH.  This is the car I used to basically jerk off to when I was 10 and wasn’t totally into girls yet.  So not only was this girl totally cool, hot as all fuck and had a sick apartment, but she also had impeccable taste in cars?  If I wasn’t an emotionally numb sociopath I would have fallen straight into irreversible love right then and there.  But that STILL wasn’t the end of it.


“You want to drive?”


No.  This is not happening.  This girl is not seriously trusting me, a guy she met less than 12 hours ago, to sit behind the wheel of her $250,000 supercar.  I must be dreaming.  I actually discreetly pinched myself on my leg as hard as I could in that moment.  Just pain, and still an Aston Martin.  What the fuck was life at that moment.  I get in the car, push to start, and immediately feel the rumble of the V12 engine tickling my nuts.  She says she’ll give me directions to where she’s going, so I just pull out of the lot and get on the main road.


Now.  For those of you who have never driven a supercar before, I’m not even gonna think of some wacky, outrageous metaphor about nutsack tickling or anything to describe it.  It’s just pure, sweet, unbridled joy.  It’s everything you could ever want it to be and 100 more things.  The only issue was, it was a manual.  I had driven a stick-shift maybe 3 times in my life prior to that moment, but they were beaters.  This car cost more than my entire family’s college education.  So it was less of a matter of driving it well and looking cool as it was “FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T SHIFT INTO HIGH REVS DON’T BLOW THE GEARBOX FUCK FUCK FUCK.”  I don’t think my anxiety could have gotten much higher than it did behind the wheel of that car.  For a brief second I considered seeing if I could get her to give me road head, but I ruled that out because 1. Stick shift makes that close to impossible, 2. All the blood in my body was going toward the goal of not crashing the car leaving my dick limp and useless, and 3. I probably would have decided I’ve won life and would have no ambition to do anything ever again.


Eventually she says “we are here mi amore.”  So sexy.  I look up.  It’s a McDonalds.  Top fucking lol.  This girl was growing even more perfect by the second.  I guess nothing would compliment an Aston more than me in the drivers seat aggressively smashing a McMuffin.  I rack up a 40 euro McDonalds bill because I must have gotten like 7 mcmuffins and 10 hash browns for myself and my friends.  I insisted she drive me to the hotel so that I could actually eat, and so that the liability of me crashing the car was suspended.


She drops me off, gives me a sweet little kiss, and thanks me for a wonderful time.  I thank her back, actually genuinely because it had been one of the most ridiculous nights of my life.  She puts her number in my phone as I get out, says “arrivederci dolcezza” and drives off.  I then run up to my room to find one of my friends passed out, with no sign of the other.  I shotgun toss a few McMuffins at him and recount the entire night in vivid detail.  It turns out my other friend got arrested.  Again.


To this day I still consider that weekend in Italy the greatest vacation I’ve ever taken. I still have that girl’s number on my whatsapp and we stay in occasional contact.  Great girl, has a boyfriend now, as is tradition.


If there’s one thing you should take away from this post, it’s this:  STUDY ABROAD.

  One thought on “Storytime Tuesday: Hans Dix Studies Abroad, Hilarity Ensues Pt. 1

  1. dt_brwn
    January 13, 2016 at 4:55 pm

    Awesome read as per usual Hans

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