Dylan Campbell
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CHAPTER ONE: STARTING AFRESH
The plane had touched down at Porto Airport, the plane skidded into a halt and left the runway. People awkwardly heaved the large suitcases through the crowd of hundreds of passengers in a cluster, all trying to leave at once.
As soon as the crowd had dispersed, and most of them had descended down the stairs, I followed suit. The air was warm, clung onto your clothes and onto your skin tight. As I carried my small suitcase towards the shuttle bus that would take us to the main terminal, I pondered.
Was this the right thing to do? My friends and family back home in Northern Ireland have given me messages of support, but I still wasn't sure. The job was massive, it was great for my coaching career. Finally, a job at a top-flight club in a respectable European league in Portugal.
And, the city the club was based in was massive. Surely, there's plenty of apartments around. But even so, I was worried. All I had taken with me on this long and uncertain journey was a small backpack, a wee suitcase, a couple of hundred euros and a book on how to speak Portuguese.
I stepped onto the bus which quickly whisked us away to the main terminal within minutes. As soon as we arrived, we were led towards an area where guards stood behind protective glass, asking for your passport. As soon as I shown my details to the stern-faced guard opposite to me, I walked towards the exit.
At the exit, there was several people, holding banners and placards of names. Mostly surnames. These people were mainly taxi drivers, who would ferry the tourists to their hotels or apartments. I saw my surname, being held by a short, chubby-faced, bearded man with a younger man, tall and less beardy.
I walked over, and greeted them in Portuguese. They took me to the grey taxi, where I told them where I was going.
The taxi led us away from the airport and onto the roads leading to the city centre.
The short, chubby man asked: "De onde voce e?" For a moment, there was an awkward silence but the younger person translated what he had said in English.
"Manuel says, where are you from?"
"Oh, I'm from Northern Ireland. It's in the United Kingdom."
"Irlanda do Norte"
The short, chubby man nodded. "É o bom tempo na Irlanda do Norte?"
"Is the weather good over there?", the younger man translated.
"No, it rains. Probably that's why I left to come here.", I replied.
Não, chove muito. Provavelmente é por isso que eu deixei de vir aqui.
The small man nodded once again, as he registered what I had said through the translation of his younger colleague.
He looked through the back mirror, his eyes pierced into mine. He noticed the smart suit I was wearing.
This time, the younger man asked. "Are you going somewhere nice?"
"A job interview."
"Before you go, I would put some spray on your armpits. You'll be very sweaty."
"Yeah, I guess I might as well."
"What is this job you're being interviewed for?"
"A job as a football coach. For Boavista."
"Nao." The old man was disappointed. Shaking his head angrily.
"The younger man smiled. He's a Porto fan. For all his life."
"I see."
"We don't mind Boavista as much as we mind Benfica or Sporting. Mainly because Boavista's rubbish."
"Well, they're in the top-flight again. Maybe they'll be challenging Porto one day."
"Good luck with that!", the young man scoffed.
The car pulled up outside the hotel. It was in a rough council estate nearby the city centre, but it would do. "Obrigado.", I shouted out as I left the car. I had used the only good words of Portuguese to my advantage.
The young man shouted back, and soon the taxi sped away back towards the airport.
Well, welcome to your new home, Dylan. It's too late to go back home now. You have to make do with what you have. Even if it's not worthwhile.
The plane had touched down at Porto Airport, the plane skidded into a halt and left the runway. People awkwardly heaved the large suitcases through the crowd of hundreds of passengers in a cluster, all trying to leave at once.
As soon as the crowd had dispersed, and most of them had descended down the stairs, I followed suit. The air was warm, clung onto your clothes and onto your skin tight. As I carried my small suitcase towards the shuttle bus that would take us to the main terminal, I pondered.
Was this the right thing to do? My friends and family back home in Northern Ireland have given me messages of support, but I still wasn't sure. The job was massive, it was great for my coaching career. Finally, a job at a top-flight club in a respectable European league in Portugal.
And, the city the club was based in was massive. Surely, there's plenty of apartments around. But even so, I was worried. All I had taken with me on this long and uncertain journey was a small backpack, a wee suitcase, a couple of hundred euros and a book on how to speak Portuguese.
I stepped onto the bus which quickly whisked us away to the main terminal within minutes. As soon as we arrived, we were led towards an area where guards stood behind protective glass, asking for your passport. As soon as I shown my details to the stern-faced guard opposite to me, I walked towards the exit.
At the exit, there was several people, holding banners and placards of names. Mostly surnames. These people were mainly taxi drivers, who would ferry the tourists to their hotels or apartments. I saw my surname, being held by a short, chubby-faced, bearded man with a younger man, tall and less beardy.
I walked over, and greeted them in Portuguese. They took me to the grey taxi, where I told them where I was going.
The taxi led us away from the airport and onto the roads leading to the city centre.
The short, chubby man asked: "De onde voce e?" For a moment, there was an awkward silence but the younger person translated what he had said in English.
"Manuel says, where are you from?"
"Oh, I'm from Northern Ireland. It's in the United Kingdom."
"Irlanda do Norte"
The short, chubby man nodded. "É o bom tempo na Irlanda do Norte?"
"Is the weather good over there?", the younger man translated.
"No, it rains. Probably that's why I left to come here.", I replied.
Não, chove muito. Provavelmente é por isso que eu deixei de vir aqui.
The small man nodded once again, as he registered what I had said through the translation of his younger colleague.
He looked through the back mirror, his eyes pierced into mine. He noticed the smart suit I was wearing.
This time, the younger man asked. "Are you going somewhere nice?"
"A job interview."
"Before you go, I would put some spray on your armpits. You'll be very sweaty."
"Yeah, I guess I might as well."
"What is this job you're being interviewed for?"
"A job as a football coach. For Boavista."
"Nao." The old man was disappointed. Shaking his head angrily.
"The younger man smiled. He's a Porto fan. For all his life."
"I see."
"We don't mind Boavista as much as we mind Benfica or Sporting. Mainly because Boavista's rubbish."
"Well, they're in the top-flight again. Maybe they'll be challenging Porto one day."
"Good luck with that!", the young man scoffed.
The car pulled up outside the hotel. It was in a rough council estate nearby the city centre, but it would do. "Obrigado.", I shouted out as I left the car. I had used the only good words of Portuguese to my advantage.
The young man shouted back, and soon the taxi sped away back towards the airport.
Well, welcome to your new home, Dylan. It's too late to go back home now. You have to make do with what you have. Even if it's not worthwhile.