The boy sipped his espresso, eyeing the peeling wallpaper and faded gold accents. In front of him sat a newspaper, a journal, and a minor glass of sparkling water. The newspaper was dated August 9, 1930.

He was quiet, the boy. It was his third day consecutive visiting the humble cafe.

“Rare to have a foreigner in here,” thought Don Facundo, the joint’s owner and sole staff.

It was odd that the boy had even found the small cafe-bar in the chaos of Salta’s colonial downtown sprawl. The only indication of Don Facundo’s place, tucked behind an optician's office, was an ailing sign that spelled “Don -ndo Cafe” above white pillars and a teal fresco.

Albeit quiet, the boy was a curious young fellow. Short crop of hair, mismatched clothes, and tired eyes—the eyes of someone so obsessed with making their precious time count that he often forgot to rest.

The boy had taken a fancy to Don Facundo and his collection of artifacts in the old cafe. He would alternate between writing in his tattered blue journal and asking Don Facundo the occasional question.

His Spanish was broken, but the boy spoke confidently, unbothered by mistakes. His persistence almost made him sound fluent. Most foreigners who made it this far north in the Argentine provinces rarely met Don Facundo with a buen día.

On his first visit two days ago, when pressed as to how he spoke Spanish this well, the boy shrugged, replied, “I like languages,” and returned to his blank pages.

“Do you speak any others?”

“Not yet.”

Don Facundo leaned in. “What would you learn next?”

The boy set his pen down and gazed at the old-world map hanging on the wall.

“Whichever gives me the most access to new people.”

Don Facundo chuckled, “So, nothing specific? Why learn one?”

“I like stories,” the boy smiled. “Languages are keys to new stories. I want as many keys as I can get.”

Don Facundo stood and polished a glass while thinking about the boy’s comment. Before he could continue though, the boy asked how much he owed for his espresso, bid Don Facundo an hasta luego, and left the owner behind his bar top, both feeling disappointed he hadn’t stayed to speak longer.

To Don Facundo’s surprise, the boy had reappeared the following morning, once again with his blue journal and black pen. After some pleasantries, he settled back into his corner table facing Don Facundo’s bar and the map and picked up from the day before with his journal.

Don Facundo was pleased to see the boy back again but was weary of interrupting his writing. It was clear to the wisened cafe owner this boy was a lone traveler without many friends here in northern Argentina.

He had mentioned the first day that he was ardently against speaking his native language with others, fearing it would impede his progression in Spanish. It was a sad affliction and one that would certainly bar the boy from connecting with others who might understand him better than those like Don Facundo.

Almost as if on cue, the boy lifted his head from the journal and pointed to the glass-cased display on the wall beside him.

“What is the story behind these?”

He indicated an old sextant, a looking glass, and a couple of other nautical trinkets.

“Those were my father-in-law’s. Treasures from his adventures.”

“What did he do?”

Don Facundo delicately picked a fading newspaper off a shelf behind the bar and showed it to the boy.

“He was a sailor. A tradesman, actually,” Don Facundo beamed. “I’ve known him as long as I’ve known my wife. He’s been around the world and sailed all seven oceans. Although his main trade was produce, and he sailed between Argentina and Spain for most of his time.”

The boy remained silent and looked upon the sailor’s trinkets in the case. His eyes wandered as he imagined himself at the helm of a ship bound for Spain.

Don Facundo watched on, remembering when he, too, dreamed of daring expeditions near Egypt, stormy Atlantic crossings, and moorings off the coast of the Brazils. His father-in-law's tales had been his own dreams once.

Alas, Don Facundo was one of the many who failed to pursue their dream for fear of what that dream would manifest into once turned a reality.

Dreams like those are safer preserved as dreams.

The boy broke the silence.

“He sounds like a man with a lot of interesting stories.”

“He was,” Don Facundo sighed. “but he passed ten years ago now. Even I do not know all of his stories.”

Don Facundo gestured around his cafe.

“These decorations are his. I wanted to show the treasures of an interesting man.”

“I would have liked to meet him.” The boy stood. “I have to go now though. Can I come back tomorrow and read that newspaper?”

Don Facundo obliged. The boy laid some tattered pesos on the table and bid farewell into the desert heat.

That was how the boy had come to be at Don Facundo’s corner table for the third day running. He had set down the old newspaper and was scribbling furiously in his journal.

“Forgive my interruption,” Don Facundo said. “But what is it that you’re always writing?”

"Depends," the boy said, setting down his pen. "Some days, it’s where I came from. Today, it’s where I’m going.”

“And where are you going?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m writing about it.”

“Well, where would you like to go?”

"Everywhere.” The boy’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing. “But I can't. Every time I choose one direction, I lose the other."

Don Facundo couldn’t help but smile too, in spite of himself, for he saw clearly the naivety in this boy as he once felt it in his own youth.

“Then, how do you decide?”

The boy thought for a moment. “With whichever I’d enjoy the most.”

“And how do you know if you’ll enjoy somewhere?”

“If it lets me do what I love, obvio.”

“Obvio, eh?” repeated Don Facundo. “Yes, it seems rather obvious to me too.”

“It’s obvious?” The boy perked up.

Don Facundo’s pale, grey eyes twinkled. “Did you ever consider Portuguese?”

The boy finally grasped what Don Facundo was hinting at.

"Brazil." The word hung in the air as the boy drifted into thought. “I don’t know if I’m ready for another language. It’s been a long time since I went somewhere and couldn’t communicate.”

Don Facundo shrugged, though secretly satisfied to see the seed of an idea already taking root in the boy. He felt responsible for being the push the boy needed to embark on a new adventure—the push Don Facundo never received himself.

The boy stood up and gathered his sparse possessions.

“Thanks for the coffee. I need to find a map.”

“That sounds like a nice idea,” encouraged Don Facundo, a victorious grin forming across his wrinkled face.

Laying a few pesos on top of the newspaper, he walked over to Don Facundo and held out his hand.

“And thanks for the advice.”

“I didn’t give any,” Don Facundo said, shaking his hand.

The boy smiled and turned toward the door, the map already forming in his mind. Don Facundo watched the boy leave, his liver-spotted hand resting on the counter a moment longer than necessary.

Outside, the sun beat down on the street, the heat shimmering off the pavement. The boy stepped out into the haze and disappeared from sight.

Don Facundo turned back to the empty cafe. The yellowed maps creaked in the heat. He polished a glass, thinking of the journeys he never took.

Then he sighed and went back to work.