I don't take coffee at this hour

Last week, I accompanied the mother of a new Indian student to meet the local adult basic education (ABE) people, so she can join a "Motherspeak" English-language-learning group. The two women helped her fill out the required forms ("You can't get anything for free from the government, you know" one of the women told me with collegial derision.), which mostly wanted name, age, country of origin, ethnicity. Asian?
Afterward, the woman insisted I come to her apartment. I was happy to say yes; meeting new people from far places and witnessing their adaptation is why I teach ESL. I'm always curious to see the apartments they rent, what comes with the place, what they bring with them and what they find necessary to acquire here.
I sat at the table in the kitchen and ate a salty, flavorful snack from a straight-sided stainless bowl with a plastic spoon. Included with the snack--peanuts, various puffed items--were several saltine crackers. I made sure to finish with the flavor of the puffed fried tasties, not the bland saltines. She gave me sweet coffee, instant, lightened; it reminded me of Senegal. It was wonderful. Served in a small glass tumbler without a handle, I was forced to slow down, blow it to cool it, savor it. She herself didn't drink any; "I don't take coffee...at this hour," she confessed.
Our conversation was punctuated by pauses, silences, smiles; I know now that she is 30 years old, a twin, a woodworker. Living in a building populated by others like herself, Indians on work assignment, not permanent but long-term enough to justify bringing wife, children, to experience American winters and Vermont schools.
I should have known she would ask me in; I was ready to say yes when she asked. I wanted to see their place, sure. I also wanted her to be the hostess, to be the hosted. Sometimes the most welcoming thing we can do is to accept another's hospitality, to accept her right to be placeholder, her need to say, "I belong here too. Let me welcome you to the world."