Away From Home

by David Zambrano - Founder

Something was clearly missing. Sunday felt duller than usual, despite the privileges legitimately earned as a driven middle-class citizen in a country you weren’t born in, but are legally “productive”: sleeping in, overindulging at breakfast, a quick trip to the park with the little ones, watching Newcastle United suffer in the Premier League at noon... and that was it. Something was missing.

Sudamericana Cup Final

And let’s be real—living far from your birthplace is always a touchy subject, beyond the biological and social ties. Sure, you can live without getting wasted on whisky at some lifelong mate’s wedding, or missing your grandparents’ golden anniversary, all in the name of building a better life elsewhere. But sooner or later, it hits you: not being close to your team, especially on a Sunday when they’re playing at home, will get to you.

Because when your team plays, the routine flips on its head, and everything—absolutely everything—revolves around the match schedule. Even how you dress gets an upgrade: football jerseys paired with jeans are suddenly socially acceptable, and you coordinate everything, even your underwear, to match your team’s colors. The jersey gets special treatment (I always wear an extra layer underneath to protect it from sweat), and you can’t forget your “anti-mufa” accessory, adapted for the day’s weather. Timing is everything too—getting to the stadium early enough for the pre-match rituals is sacred (though, let’s be honest, every fan’s ritual is a world of its own). And then comes the match itself. Nothing compares to watching your team live. Whether they’re high up the table or struggling at the bottom doesn’t matter; every match is a battle to make that Sunday the absolute best day of your week. It doesn’t always work out, but believe me, a crap Sunday because of football is far better than a bland one caused by nothing at all.

But far from those Sundays, nowadays it was obvious what was missing. The jerseys. The pitch. The swearing. The anti-mufa charms. The empanadas. The beer (not sold here). The chants. Watching goals live. Screaming goals live. More. So much more. The thing is, it wasn’t that it wasn’t there—it was me. It was my fault. I’m in a South American country, and trust me, there’s plenty of football to go around. It’ll never be quite the same as your first and only love, but if you look hard enough, you’ll find a place that feels a little like home.

For nearly eight years, I waited for an excuse to go back home, praying the schedule aligned with a home match for my team. It usually worked, but it wasn’t enough. One match a year? Sometimes one every two years. Far too little. Then, finally, it clicked: why not change my weekends’ fate? Why not find a local team and let us adopt each other?

Estadio Nacional Chile

Surprisingly, it wasn’t too hard to find the right club to go to every other Sunday, wearing their jersey (and an extra layer underneath). Sorting out the weekend to handle family commitments, still catch Newcastle’s game, and make it to the stadium in time. And then discovering the local magic—getting on the metro packed with fans, singing, and flooding the carriages with the team’s colors. Being part of a 30,000+ crowd that consistently fills the stands of the Estadio Nacional. Learning new chants and rediscovering the joy of screaming a goal and hugging strangers nearby. Winning. Losing. Swearing.

Sundays are starting to take shape. They’re not so ruthlessly neutral anymore. I’m a bit closer to home now, and I play at home again. Do I miss anything? Of course—I miss my beautiful team and, yeah, I miss the beer in the stadium. They don’t sell it here. It couldn’t be perfect. But it’s close enough.