On a recent Sunday a woman came up to the Wife and invited our family over for a ‘coffecito’.  I was really surprised by this given both how large our family is and the fact that my Spanish is considerably better than this woman’s English.  However, she seemed very excited about it and her home is near ours so we agreed.

When we arrived at her home we discovered that several other parishoners from church were there and are actually her sisters, and of course there were a handful of young people who were children of one or another of the women.  What unfolded before our eyes was really extraordinary; these ladies proceeded to bring out box after box of expensive US cereal, and then cooked up these little hot dogs, made scrambled eggs, and of course served the requisite beans and cheese.  They also made thin, light pancake-style patties.

All the teenagers involved from both sides of the cultural divide were, of course, timid and refused to speak to one another in the others’ language, and so ate their cereal, beans and eggs in an awkward silence, but once the Wife and I sat down for our turn you would have thought we were close family.

They told us all about their extended family, how they live in the capital and come to Antigua every weekend, who in the family goes to church and who doesn’t, and which of the children they’re having a hard time disciplining.  I got to query them on a wide range of topics including their opinions on Colom and Molina (thumbs down to both), and whether women in Guatemala are oppressed by their men (‘No, that is only the case in the lower classes where they are not educated’), while the Wife got to ask them about prices for pillows, blankets and other domestic matters.

We ate and drank the family coffee (the husband’s family apparently owns a finca), and talked for nearly three hours, while the children had the run of the house and the neighborhood.  By then I was exhausted from the lengthy Spanish conversation and apologized but insisted I needed to leave.  (When the toddler is rolling around on the floor begging to take a nap, it’s always a good sign it’s time to wrap things up).  Our gracious hosts wouldn’t even allow us to help take the pile of dishes into the kitchen.  For all the friendliness and familiarity they treated us with, in the end we were still honored guests.

On the way home, I reflected on the odds that back in Phoenix I would have ever invited a family I didn’t know and whose language I didn’t speak into my home for an impromptu, substantial three hour brunch.

Of course, the true test will be whether we ever get a second invite.

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