The full flight leaves the grounds of Guarulhos Airport in Sao Paulo right in the middle of a hazy summer night and rockets off Eastbound before turning North and aiming its nose towards the Atlantic Coast. The seats on the old Iberia plane prove to be a challenge to cope with on this ten-hour flight across the pond, the bland chicken served on the tray adding to the rudeness of the staff and the lack of entertainment options. An old movie is played on the main screens over Northern Brazil when the flight grows bumpy.

A shy breakfast is served when the aircraft reaches Andalucia and the arid hills around Barajas cushion our descent into Madrid.
The cold air of the European winter hits me right in the face when walking through the glass airbridge at the modern airport terminal and in the distance, I devise snowy peaks caressing the high towers of Moncloa.

It is under the sinuous steel arches of Barajas that the idea for this blog begins. The start of a new journey and a new life in foreign lands perhaps fueled by the sound of planes taking the many runways of the airport over, some jumbo jets heading back to the New World in America, some smaller aircraft setting course to the European jewels yet to be discovered, inviting to dream of the traveling days that will come. The first step looking for something new has been taken.

My connecting flight leaves from a different terminal and I join local passengers. The plane leaves in the late afternoon and skim through the thickness of a rainy day in the Cantabric.
I decide not to spend my precious Euros on an overpriced inflight sandwich, despite my seat colleagues devouring chocolates, coffees and snacks, swiping their debit cards on the tired machine with no regrets. ‘One day’ I think.

My heart pounds harder when I am handed a paper stub with the wording ‘REPUBLIC OF IRELAND LANDING CARD’ on it and, through a series of turns amid pale white clouds, I spot some green land through the window.
It is a rainy day in Ireland. A Westlife (Irish boy band) sign welcomes me to the terminal before climbing down the steps to a small immigration hall damp with the smell of old wooden slats.
An officer welcomes me and scan my passport with his pale blue eyes, his red hair glistening at the flick of an old neon light, stamping me into the country.

Outside the terminal, the wind and rain fulfill the premise of arriving in this small piece of land embedded in the North Atlantic.
I help a Brazilian girl with some directions and take a taxi to my new home in North Dublin. The driver politely engages in an informal chat but I understand no words through the thick accent. Warm shower and food after more than twenty hours of travel are welcomed.

Refreshed in the morning, I wear my business attire and, improvising on my navigation skills, I arrive at the Hilton Hotel in Kilmainham, where I am joined by over 200 people to participate in a ‘Qatar Airways Open Day’
As any Open Day, presentations about the company, the benefits, the job and the country are made, a few questions are raised, and a CV submission is done.
Some might say the selection process is a gamble, yet I believe it is mostly about posture and body language, for your every move from the moment you stand up from your chair to the moment you engage into the thirty-second conversation with the recruiters is being assessed. An attempt to establish some sort of compatibility.

Somewhat confused and jetlagged, I leave the building and walk the three miles to the city centre, following the banks of the Liffey at the aroma of burned barley from the Guinness Brewery.
A call is received on my brand-new mobile when I step off the bus at Clarehall and a female voice invites me to attend the Assessment Day the next day. A true test of endurance with countless hours of group exercises and eliminations a la America’s Next Top Model. Eight hours later, twelve people remain.

A two-to-one interview is held the day after, which involves a quick informal chat about life mixed with some specific questions about customer service experience. Done and dusted, I sit in my living room setting up this blog and most importantly, waiting on life to tell me what the next steps are going to be, whether be in Dublin, Doha or wherever the winds now take me.