One fine day in Eastern Europe I had my ear twisted by the warblings of a drunken Ukrainian youth who had spent some time in America, and felt the need to both praise and shit-talk his own people, as I’ve noticed Slavs like to do. His historical perspective was rather intriguing, and his story of betrayal by his compatriots is hilarious, especially since it came with a seeming non-chalant acceptance of their behavior. The diatribe is as follows:
“We, the Slavic people, are the all-absorbing race, and I am a proud member. We are the sedentary, agrarian sponge that sits at the crossroads of East and West, putting up with shit and staying put. Countless nomadic Asian hordes, Middle Eastern empires, and Western civilizations have poured into our traditional homeland, killing, raping, and pillaging, and we just shrug. The Vikings started Russia, Central Asians established Bulgaria, but where are they now? Since we have lived here, we have sucked in each and every successive oppressor with the welcoming magic of procreation and now they speak our languages, eat our food, and live our lifestyle.
But apparently they weren’t letting the facial hair and fierce stares go
And who can blame them? We were the first Brazilians, before people had the wherewithal to sail over oceans and mix all races. Various tribes traveled overland on horseback, far from their origin to steal our natural bounty and ended up entranced by our women, the genes of these goddesses blended with those of innumerable previous “visitors”. Here they settled, pacified by the simplicity of our existence, and we all weathered many more calamities with patience honed by lifetimes of waiting out brutal winters.
When our reputation spread, some preferred to bring us over to them. Turks stole Slavic boys to serve in their army and government, while Arabs built contingents of enslaved Slavic soldiers to fight in Spain and North Africa. Our women, on the other hand, populated the harems of Turkish sultans, torn from their wooden villages far in Ukraine or Poland by Mongol raiders. The most famous harem slave, known in the West as Roxelana, was kidnapped 50 miles from here, and taken to the Turkish capital. Although just a slave, she ended up pussy-whipping the greatest Ottoman sultan, Suleyman the Magnificent, to the point where he married her, against a centuries-old tradition forbidding just that. All you need is love.
You Westerners are not so innocent. Your lust for Slavic drudges ended up defining the term in your languages. “Slav” looks like the word “slave” for a reason!
Be reminded that the vast majority of our value sits in our female specimens. Take it from me, a Slavic male. Or grab a spot on the sidewalk in a Ukrainian city: marvel at the delicate, short-skirted, neon-colored bra under the low-cut shirted, perfectly primped, voluptuously hour-glass figured knockout in stilettos walking to do groceries at 8 in the morning hand in hand with the overweight, shaved head asshole wearing a preposterous gold chain that has more surface area than the stained tanktop he has on which barely covers his belly, hands grasping at a 2 liter plastic bottle of unfiltered beer. And just remember: she kisses him with that nasty beer breath.
“Dropped my girl off…don’t give a fuck…”
And this leads to our one major flaw: the love of a bottle. Wars, invasion, and oppression make you quick to numb your mind and your thoughts in any way possible. When armies from another country march through your land to attack someone else, but end up taking all your shit instead and burning down your house for the fuck of it…pour a shot. When Stalin comes around with promises that the workers will rule yet ends up working millions to their early graves…cheers, brother!
The Eastern European siesta
We have built quite the genetic tolerance of spirits. Your alcoholic dad had you taking shots at 12, causing the extreme level of drunkenness that is ever present in Eastern European life. In the United States, you have your fratboys, your homeless, and your occasional soccer moms cackling with glee after one too many Appletinis. This all pales in comparison to the shitcanned segment of society here in Ukraine that insinuates itself into your life on the daily.
It’s 2 pm on a Wednesday. You could be doing whatever-the-hell errand someone does at 2 pm on a Wednesday. In America, you would see some lady pushing her kid in a stroller, maybe some teenagers in a park cutting school, a man in an ugly shirt walking his puppy. But once you step over the former Iron Curtain….actually, quite the same. Well, everybody would be less fat.
Except for one difference.
There is some middle-aged guy in nondescript but disheveled clothing, sporting a bushy mustache, the skin on his face a feline calico of tan and red patches caused by sitting in the sun all day and by being fucking DRUNK. He is stumbling zigzags down the street, and a stream of blood is trickling from his forehead, down between his eyebrows and on the right side of the nose.
You know…like these guys…
The crazy thing is, no one reacts. The occasional old lady gives him the stink-eye, but walks around him, clutching her purse. She judges through judgy eyes silently, with her close-cropped haircut, a thin, gold chain bisecting that fleshy mound where her neck meets her blouse. But that’s it in the way of reactions. This guy clearly, and quite spectacularly, did several face plants on a side street, nose-diving straight into the sidewalk. No big deal.
Like the worm in the tequila?
A lot of things get passed down through a blood line: appearance, genetic diseases, a predisposition for alcoholism…you would think that somewhere in there, I can handle my liquor. Ah but living here…..you are so wrong.
It came to pass that I was out on the town one evening in Lviv. Some people were going down to the local bar, built quite charmingly in a medieval basement. I had a great time dancing in the beginning of the evening, met some new friends, but apparently around 3 am, everything caught up to me.
The medieval basement of debauchery
Next thing I know, I’m lying down on a white leather-covered bench, still in the club….meaning I don’t know how I ended up lying down. I sit up in shock, and what feels like a bucket of liquid splashes straight in my face. Licking my lips and inhaling deeply, it is clearly beer. This means that two things could have happened, both quite feasible because Ukrainian guys like to fuck with people. A) Someone poured beer on my face to wake me up or B) Someone balanced a beer on my chest so that it would splash in my face when I sat up. Option B is what I’m going to go with, just because it’s the most ridiculous. Oh yea, and given that I flailed around like a spider dropped into a toilet bowl once I got wet, I probably would have hit whoever poured beer on me had it been Option A. Clearly, I’m a freaking detective.
I stood up, walked to the bathroom, rinsed off my face as some random men watched half-bewildered, half-amused, and I walked back home. All my friends that hadn’t gone to the club found this whole story pretty funny, and I guess so did I…until I was jumping in the shower, looked into the mirror, and pawed at my bare chest in disbelief, realizing my own gold chain had been stolen. My friends found that funnier.”
-Dan (Ottawa, Canada), 19, hearing about golden (beer) showers in Lviv, Ukraine
Lesson learned: Don’t think that you have some innate skills just because of some perceived “birthright”. If you can’t hang, you’ll end up wet and chainless.