Storytime Tuesday: Hans Dix Studies Abroad, Hilarity Ensues Pt. 2

Hans Dix Visits Ukraine; Almost Dies


If I could tell this story in one sentence it would be this: Don’t go to Ukraine. Actually, just don’t go to Eastern Europe. If you look up “depressing” in the dictionary, it’s just a picture of an Eastern Bloc apartment building.


There are certain parts of the internet that love to tell you how awesome Eastern Europe is and how much better it is than America.  No offense to any of you readers that just so happen to live there, but let me be the first to tell you that’s a giant sack of shit.  There’s a reason so many people from those countries want so desperately to GTFO and head west….because it’s a miserable hellscape.  But before I knocked it so incessantly, I had to try it, as is my policy.


Moving on, it gets worse.


See, I made the mistake of traveling to the country during the height of their feud with Russia. It was a stupid, dangerous move from the start, and to this day I don’t know why we decided to go. I didn’t realize how dangerous it actually was for me to go to that country, especially during that specific time. I mean, I didn’t fly straight into Kiev, grab my AK-47 and just start capping Ruskis left and right, but regardless my presence there was a bad omen. And I’ll just say one thing; those feelings were extremely valid.


My two friends and I fly into Lviv and from the get go I was getting a bad feeling. The sky was completely overcast, but for some reason seemed even darker than a normal cloudy day here in America. I swear the market for antidepressants must be fucking BOOMING over there, because I don’t think I could go more than a week in that weather before wanting to eat a .44 for lunch. I immediately began to remedy my twinge of cloudy day depression I began to feel by grabbing a bottle of vodka at the duty free and going to work on it. I nursed it an unhealthy amount while we sat outside the airport waiting for our ride. Shit, all I needed to do was put on an Adidas track suit and my Slav game would have already been on point.


Our scheduled ride arrives an hour after if was supposed to be there. The driver, who we’ll just call “Vladimir” spoke about 10 words of English, but luckily also spoke French which one of my buddies was fluent in. We load up our stuff and take the roughly 10 minute drive to our hostel, where we realized we probably could have just walked. Whatever. We throw our shit in the room and immediately begin plotting our inevitable demise.


We go down to the hostel common area and start chopping it up with the people there. A couple other Americans, some Frenchies, Spaniards, Greeks, Estonians, and a few Chinese. Not a looker in the group, but they were decent company so we stuck around and continued to nurse our vodka with them. Eventually everyone else decided to team up and semi-jokingly shit on us Americans in the room. It was at that point that I decided, “fuck this, in this country, I’m not American. I’m German. From this point forward until the plane home leaves Ukranian airspace, I am Sebastian from Frankfurt.


So, one of the french guys offers to sell us some, ahm, “ski equipment.”  He said it’s really good ski equipment and I don’t doubt him because of its yellowish tint.  I don’t normally go skiing, but I was gonna do anything to spice up this trip a bit because the skies had depression written all over them and I wasn’t about to let them win.  My buddy buys the ski equipment and we go back to our room to get ready for a night we are pretty sure will end in tragic blackouts all around.


We got a tip from the “concierge” aka old sketchy slav that ran the front desk of the hostel about where the good clubs are.  We head out into town and in the direction that was given to us by the dude, and end up at some sketchy looking bar down a rather narrow street.  And when I say narrow street, I mean a normal American pickup truck probably would have trouble driving down it.  Yeah, one of those streets.  Get walk in the club and are actually quite surprised.  It’s bumping.  The music may not have been my taste (strange 90s techno beats) but if this is what gets Ukrainian girls riled up, then I’m game as fuck.


After grabbing drinks and some strange dance floor encounters with Ukrainian dudes decked out in Hollister, we decide to post up at a table.  I don’t know whether or not they were VIP tables, but there was nobody sitting at this particular one and there was no host in sight, so we just sat down to do some scanning.  At this point, my buddy who had purchased the ski equipment decides to take it out and just straight up lay it on the table.  Apparently they don’t give too much of a fuck about open use of ski equipment in that particular part of Europe because there were literally no objections from anybody but myself about what had just happened.  So, I took it as it came.  A couple of girls had moseyed their way over to our table and were now chopping it up with me and my friends.  This trip was gonna be bearable after all.


Then it all went south.


I hear a loud exclamation of anger from the table next to us, which I had paid little to no attention to up until that point.  I look over and see it’s absolutely full of ratty looking dudes with even rattier looking chicks on their laps.  My guess is there were probably a couple classy chicas under the table too, based purely off the atmosphere.  Whatever, these guys can be their degenerate selves while I’m being my own degenerate self.  No harm done.  I wish.


After another loud yell from the table next to us, we are approached by a guy in a leather jacket, with two big burly bodyguard/bouncer looking dudes in tow.  He eyes us down, looks at our table, and back at us.


“You think this is funny?” He says, in the thickest of Slavic accents.


We all just sort of look around confused at each other.  What was going on?  Why is this dude, who has a very mob-esque vibe to him, confronting us?  We stay on guard.


“I ASK YOU IF YOU THINK IS THIS FUNNY” He barks.  At this point I’m getting a little scared, seeing as we did have quite a bit of ski equipment openly laying on the table.  Is this dude the cops?  Fuck, I’m not going to Russian jail.  I begin looking for escape routes.


After an exchange with my buddy who spoke a little Ukrainian it was made clear, but not more comforting what the issue was.  This man was under the impression that we had stolen some of his ski equipment.  Just looking at this guy, I immediately knew that this was a person from whom you did not want to steal things of the ski equipment nature, and would usually end up with you being left in a ditch somewhere one .357 bullet heavier and sans a significant amount of grey matter.


I flipped shit.  Began apologizing profusely, swearing we had honestly obtained our ski equipment (heh) and that was had not even been near his table all night.  He wasn’t buying it.  The girls at our table quickly scampered away, foreseeing the inevitable shit storm that was brewing.  At this point, discount John Gotti yells something at his goons, and they grab me and my friends by our collars and physically start dragging us out of the club.


At this point, a bit of relief washed over me.  Awesome, we’re just gonna get booted and we’ll run a few blocks away to safety.  No harm done.


Boy was I wrong.


We weren’t going toward the front door of the club.  We were going out the BACK end up the club.  I’ve seen the movies, “Casino” and the like, and my knees started cramping up just at the thought.  This was it, I was gonna leave this shit hole of a country with two broken legs for something I didn’t even do.  Awesome.  I could be in Germany enjoying a beer, maybe watching a soccer game at the pub right now, but NOOOO I had to be all adventurous and go to a shitty war torn country per the advice of some hacks who claimed it was a good time.  Fuck me royally, at least now I have a legitimate reason to hate on the ex Soviet Union.


We bang out of the back of the club and they throw us up against the wall.  My hands instinctively shoot up in a surrendering fashion, because there was roughly a 0% chance of me or any of my buddies taking on these dudes in a fight and coming out in any way victorious.  Mr. mob boss comes out, lights a cigarette, and looks us in the face.


“I do not like when you Americans come in and thinking you can just act like your idiots self”  [sic, don’t ask me how I remember that].


I started blabbering on in German.  Since German was and still sort of technically is my first language, my accent is spot on, and I could see a hint of doubt in his scarred face.  And since my buddies were from France and Spain respectively, they did the same.  Unfortunately, while not nearly as bad as Americans, apparently this guy didn’t have much of a taste for western Europeans either.  He reaches into his coat and my fears are confirmed.




I tried for a reply as I stared down the barrel of his freshly drawn CZ75 9mm pistol.  My mind and adrenaline were racing 3 miles a minute and I was very close to having an out of body experience.  I just wanted to go home.  For the first time in my adult life, I felt little baby Hans come out.  I wanted my mommy.  Yes, I have no shame in saying that.  Drunk bar fights and fraternity brawls didn’t have shit on this.  Once you’ve been in this kind of fucked up situation, you will understand the feeling completely.


As my buddies and I stammered, increasingly gravitating towards menial begging for our lives, a car came around the corner.  Since these Eastern European fucks use a completely different alphabet, I couldn’t read what it said on the car, but the lights up top made me eventually deduct that “поліція” meant police.  Still not completely over it, I watched in terror as one of the big burly Brock Lesnar looking dudes walked over to the car and began talking to whoever was inside.  Looking back, mr. mob rat had smoothly holstered his gun by the looks of it, but looked on guard.  I was still immensely terrified.


After a few minutes of conversation, the big guy came back, said something to the boss in Ukranian, and without even giving us a second glance they all walked back inside.  That would have been well and good, if that were the end of it.  Two cops came out of the car, yelled something at us in quite the hostile tone, and we just fell to our knees.  After realizing two of us spoke no ukranian, and with my idiot friend who DID speak a bit seemingly only making the situation worse, they cuffed us and threw us in the back of the cruiser.  Well shit, looks like I was gonna be on the next episode of “locked up abroad” because whatever we were about to go in for, I had nobody within a few thousand miles around me to come bail me out.


We arrive at the station and are booked, I guess.  I was pretty drunk and wasn’t really able to decipher what was going on.  All I know is that I am then separated from my friends and thrown in a cell.  But oh how I wish it had been a personal cell.  I look around and see about 20 of Ukraine’s finest street urchin degenerates sitting around staring daggers at me.  One comes up to me and asks, in a similarly thick Slavic accent,


“You are American?”


Just in time I remembered my facade that I was putting on, and rambled on, in english, in a German accent about how I’m from Germany and just got in a bit of trouble.  They may have bought it for a while and even began warming up a little, until my adrenaline finally wore off and my accent just vanished.  Eventually, I got comfortable, and completely unconsciously slipped back into my normal, American Chicago accent.  This caught their attention, and I almost saw the exact moment that it happened.  It was then that I was just like, “oh fuck, something bad is about to happen.”


The same dude walks up to me and grabs me by the T shirt, snarling in my face.  “You are American? Yes?”


Shit. Fuck.  Fuckfuckfuck.


Immediately a group of dudes comes up behind me and pins me to the ground.  One grabs my arm and plants it firmly on the prison bench, as if they were about to chop it off.  God damn my life is a fucking roller coaster.


The apparent leader of the prison gang comes up to me, and snarls in my face, “I will show you what we do to American swines here.”


Dude takes his fingernail, which was like half an inch long and sharp as a fucking razor.  He rears back and stabs me in the back of the hand.  I felt like I was in that movie “hostel” and I just wanted to go home.  Where did I go wrong in my life that I was now in a Ukrainian prison getting stabbed in my hand of all places.


He continues to carve whatever the fuck into the back of my hand for a solid 10 seconds as I scream in agony, ready to just give the fuck up on fucking life.  The screams and yells of the prison guards didn’t even register in my brain until they were pulling the dudes off me, grabbing me by the shoulder, and leading me out of the cell.  I looked down, and saw the inch long cut on the back of my hand.  It’s still there to this day, and I have no clue where they intended to go with it.  My guess is a hammer and sickle, due to the way it’s shaped.  Who knows what would have happened if those guards had arrived like 30 seconds later, I’d be hailing communism every time I give someone a high five.  So I got that going for me, which is nice.


I left the next morning.  I wanted out of this stupid, boring, manic depressive fucking country.  To this day I regret going, never want to go back, and curse the entirety of Eastern Europe east of Poland.  For all of you considering hitting up Eastern Europe, take any stories or advice you hear with a grain shaker of salt and a side of soup.  Good looking dudes especially, stay your ass in America.  There’s nothing for you out there.  Except potential murder and crazy prison goons.  And poverty.  And communism.  And gayosphere members.



  One thought on “Storytime Tuesday: Hans Dix Studies Abroad, Hilarity Ensues Pt. 2

  1. Alex
    January 27, 2016 at 1:15 am

    Dog you sound like your from new trier highschool..

    • January 27, 2016 at 4:11 am

      Surprisingly not too far off, geographically

  2. greenlander
    January 27, 2016 at 9:26 am

    I’ve lived in Siberia (Eastern Russia) for four years and never once had anything happen that remotely resembles what you’ve described. Honestly, it’s been the best four years of my life.

    Perhaps you’re going about it wrong, Hans…

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