The Curious Frenchman
And in the morning, I felt fine. I had expected the Fitz Roy hike to leave me sore. But after the steak frites the night before, I slept hard and woke up ready for another adventure. I grabbed the last breakfast bars I had been surviving on (other than steak, of course), and sipped on a cup of coffee in the hostel’s dining area. The room was lit with sun and most of the wooden picnic-like tables were empty. Only a Frenchman who we’ve been crossing paths with here and there was scarfing down a plate of eggs and toast while flipping through Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia.
In a country where maté was king, the coffee had generally not been great. I had failed to develop a taste for the local morning beverage of choice, so I dealt with my American drug addiction. But the coffee at Rancho Grande was surprisingly good. Justin, who had been traveling a lot longer than me, later confirmed that it was the best coffee he had in Argentina. I was waiting for Kelly and the other two Americans, Alex and Allison, so we could embark on the Cerro Terre trail. But at the moment, I felt content to be enjoying the morning quiet with my hot beverage.
