Let's Go, to Europe (4)
“Don't skip any meals. Make sure you eat properly every time. And if you feel even a little sick, go straight to the doctor. Just like we promised, call me at least once a day.”
In the airport lobby, Mom clutched my hand, her eyes brimming with worry as she poured out her words.
“Don't worry too much. Aunt's here anyway, right? I'll call once a day no matter what, just like I promised. And you know me—I adapt anywhere.”
I joked lightly, and only then did Mom seem to relax a fraction, slowly releasing her tight grip on my hands.
“Have a safe trip.”
Dad was as curt and solid as ever. I hesitated, wondering if I should hug him or not, then just went with my gut.
“I'll be back, Dad.”
“……!”
I pulled him into a sudden embrace. Dad stiffened in surprise at first, then patted my back a couple of times.
No long talks were needed between father and son. That one hot hug said everything words couldn't.
I passed through security. My heavy luggage was already checked in the lobby, so only my carry-ons needed scanning.
I walked to my gate, found an empty seat, and finally caught my breath. Economy class meant no lounge access.
Until boarding, I killed time on my phone with NewTube, bingeing soccer videos. Soon enough, I boarded the plane.
Was it the cramped economy seat, or this pounding excitement? Either way, it kept me wired.
Throughout that endless flight high above the clouds, I barely slept—wide-eyed the whole way.
I should've been exhausted. But even after landing, clearing immigration, and grabbing my bags, I felt zero fatigue.
It was bizarre, even to me. If anything, stepping off the plane into Madrid Barajas International Airport sharpened my mind, refreshing me like a cool breeze.
Was it an illusion? Or not? Hell if I knew.
“Kyaa! Tae-ohhhh!”
Emerging from the gate into the lobby, Aunt Han Mi-ju waved both arms wildly in welcome.
Uncle Adrian stood beside her, holding a sign that read: 'Welcome to Spain, handsome nephew Cha Tae-oh ♥'.
Obviously not his handwriting. He knew some Korean, so he got the meaning—but the shamelessness proved they were perfect for each other.
“You must've slept like a baby on the plane? Your face is glowing. Must be that young energy.”
After a joyful hug, Aunt stroked my cheek, inspecting me closely.
“Whoa, working out's done wonders. Your face looks even more handsome now.”
“How have you been, Aunt?”
“Great, of course!”
Uncle Adrian stepped up too.
“Welcome, Theo. It's been too long.”
We exchanged greetings, then headed straight to the parking lot.
On the drive to their house, Uncle gripped the wheel and boomed with laughter.
“Can't wait to get home and talk soccer with you, Theo. My heart's racing already. Haha!”
Before becoming a chef, Uncle had played for Albacete Balompié's B-team in La Liga 2—right on the pro cusp. No surprise he was soccer-mad.
Though in Spain, not loving soccer would be the real anomaly.
“Honey! Not today. Jet lag? He needs at least a day to adjust.”
“A real man doesn't care about that! He can shake it off easy! And Theo's a pro!”
I couldn't have followed their rapid Spanish before, but now it flowed like Korean in my ears.
“Aunt, I'm fine. I rested up on the plane to beat the jet lag.”
Like the saying goes, start with a needle, end up stealing cows. Eight out of ten words from my mouth were lies now.
...Gotta watch it, or it'll become habit.
“See? Pros are on another level from the start. Hahaha!”
Uncle had lived in Korea long enough to catch the basics.
Screech! After a good drive, the car pulled up.
I grabbed all my bags and followed them into Aunt's house—a two-story detached home, complete with garden and a red-painted garage.
Outskirts of Madrid, naturally—20-30 minutes by car. Still, land prices here weren't cheap.
Word was Uncle's family had money….
“As you see, two cars. Feel free to use the other one. But parking at the restaurant's tight—might have to park nearby and walk five minutes.”
A familiar Korean compact sedan waved hello next to the big Volvo SUV we'd ridden in.
I took the keys from Aunt and headed inside.
My room was upstairs—a guest room, rarely used, as Aunt explained. Freshly cleaned, new bedding—no complaints.
Free rent? I was grateful.
“This is my room….”
Alone, unpacking, I smiled at the exotic scent tickling my nose.
Felt it first at the airport: Madrid's air was different from Korea's. Not familiar yet—but I'd get there.
Gurgle!
Stomach clock hit right as I finished. Downstairs, Aunt and Uncle bustled in the kitchen.
Exotic spices mixed with familiar Korean aromas, teasing my senses.
“How is it? Good?”
Rhetorical. Their cooking was insane—nearly rolled my eyes back.
“You could sell this at the restaurant.”
“Half of it's already on the menu.”
I nodded knowingly.
“The rest are in development. We rotate monthly.”
“Could sell it all….”
“Gotta suit local tastes. More Spaniards than Korean tourists.”
Aunt grinned.
“You'll try everything at the shop later. Remember tastes, help with orders when serving.”
“Got it!”
Early dinner done, we lounged in the living room with wine, chatting idly.
“You really taught yourself? To this level?”
Uncle was floored by my Spanish.
“Jane, he's better than you.”
Jane was Aunt's nickname. Real name Han Mi-ju. Uncle used 'Mi-ju' only when serious.
“Damn. Can't argue.”
Aunt kept marveling too.
“No language school needed at this point.”
I could've played dumber, but control was impossible. Trickier than mangling Korean on purpose.
“Theo, any plans?”
Uncle asked. I set my wine glass on the table.
“Thinking trials first. Pros are a stretch, so semi-pro level.”
In Spain: Leagues 1-2 pro; 3-5 semi-pro; 6+ amateur.
A senior who'd played up to Primera Federación said mid-table there matched K3 League. But top teams or pro reserves? Elite gap, sharper than Korea's pro-semi divide.
Pro dream unlikely; semi-pro doable at my K3 level. NewTube and blogs echoed that.
“Your pro stint gives edge. B-teams might bite on a trial request. Early-20s pro-experienced striker? Valuable.”
“Hope so.”
“Normally need an agent, but your Spanish? Semi-pro solo's fine. Email, call yourself.”
Any team giving me a shot wins big—especially with a work visa contract.
“K-League just ended; over a month out, form might dip. Spanish semi-pro's physical—rough stuff.”
“Heard that much.”
Spain's beautiful game? Pro-only. Lower leagues get brutal for survival.
“Warm up first, then trial.”
Uncle hinted.
“Old youth buddy coaches a Madrid Preferente club. Sixth tier—top amateur.”
“Oh?”
“Coslada, nearby. CD Coslada's their club. I help as kit man on matchdays; owner's my brother Jose.”
Heard Uncle's bro was a real estate bigshot.
“Your resume? Straight to the squad, no trial. Amateur—no contract hassle. Play till a higher team calls?”
I was itching for the pitch anyway. No hesitation.
“Sounds good. I'll do it.”
My cooled heart reignited. Amateur or not—a month-plus off grass was too long.