USA. I thanked the young woman for my coffee. She smiled and said, “My pleasure!” I nearly dropped the cup. Her pleasure. Serving me — a stranger, a foreigner, a man who wanted nothing but coffee — had given her pleasure. Not duty. Not labor. Pleasure. I had, simply by accepting a drink, brought another soul joy. I did not know I held such power. I resolved to wield it responsibly. In my country, you try hard not to be a burden. Here, I had just learned I could be a pleasure. So I set out to be the finest pleasure a person had ever served. I thanked with my whole chest. I tipped like a grateful lord. I learned her name and used it kindly. I told the next barista that the first one was magnificent, and asked her to carry the word up the chain of command. She leaned on the counter, grinning. “You’re a whole vibe, you know that?” “I am trying,” I said, with great sincerity, “to be worthy of being your pleasure.” She laughed so hard she had to set down the milk. I left having been, I am told, the best part of her shift. So tell me, America. You say “my pleasure” and reach for the next cup. I heard that I had brought a stranger joy by doing nothing but accept her kindness — and I have decided to spend the rest of my life deserving it.