a question.

Feel free to weigh in on this one: When you overhear people having a public discussion about something -- on the Metro, let's say, or next to you in a line -- and they're struggling for a name, or a fact, that you have on the tip of your tongue, do you break in and tell them? Or, perhaps, under what circumstances (if any) would you join an already-in-progress conversation with strangers?

The following anecdote isn't a perfect illustration of the above, but it says a lot about me. The fact that I have an imperfect record at keeping my mouth shut, specifically. And that I may perhaps know a bit more about certain elements of pop culture than is technically necessary. (and less about lots of other things than I should.)

I dedicate this story to my friend Tim Davies. (pronounced DAVIS.) Those of you who know who he is will see why in a moment.

Tuesday night, I was hanging out at the front desk of the bridal shop, waiting for something or other -- a ticket to be written up? A credit card to be run? -- when I overheard two women, both aged somewhere between 50 and 60, discussing the CD that was currently playing. One woman might have been the owner of the shop -- definitely worked there, at the very least -- and I have no idea who the other was. Perhaps she worked there, too.

"This music is so lovely!" said the woman who's possibly the owner. "What is it?"

"Oh, it's some opera excerpts, a lot of them by (a young singer we'll call Carlotta Temple)," said woman No. 2.

"Who?" said Possibly The Owner.

At this, my ears perked up. I find it fascinating when I know something that someone else doesn't know. It's just so unusual, in the Land of the Pompously Overeducated (the D.C. area).
My mistake, of course, was lumping Manassas into that category. I MUST remember to stop doing that.

"She's a really young, really amazing singer. She has the most beautiful voice," said Woman 2.

"Oh. Where's she from?" said PTO.

"I ... I ... I'm not sure," said W2.

I waited a few beats for her to come up with it. It wasn't going to happen. Finally, I said,

"She's from Wales."

The first woman looked at me as if I just spoken in tongues. She had no idea what I'd just said. "What?" she said.

"She's from Wales. She's Welsh," I said, suddenly doubting myself.

"I thought she was from somewhere like Hungary or Romania," says the other lady.

"What's Wales?" the first lady asks me.

At this point, I'm seriously wishing I had kept the trap shut.

"You know -- Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England. The U.K.," I said, waving my arm in a clockwise motion to indicate the position of the islands (from her perspective).

Now, if I'm this lady, I would have begun to feel stupid. I would have said, "Oh," and hoped that the conversation died. Because, not to have HEARD of Wales? I can understand not knowing where it is. Who hasn't at least heard of the Prince of Wales?
Maybe lots of people. Okay.

But then she says, in a bit of a chiding manner, "Why didn't you just say British, then? Isn't it the same thing?"

My jaw dropped a little. Here's my second chance to keep quiet. But, no.

"I know lots of people who wouldn't consider them the same," I say, half-jokingly.

"What are you, Welsh yourself?" she retorts.

"I, uh, lived there for awhile," I say. Then I think of a great analogy. I open my mouth, ready to compare it to, say, Chinese and Japanese people. And then I take a look at the lady. Who obviously hailed from somewhere in Asia, originally. But a very long time ago (at least, she has an American accent now). I say nothing.

"How old is she?" the first lady says.

"Fifteen or so," says the second lady.
"Early twenties," I say.
The ladies look at me. I decide to stop talking.

The two ladies resume their conversation. "Her voice is so pretty! says Possibly the Owner. "What does she look like?" (don't ask me why the intense interest. It was just weird.)

"Oh, she's kind of a strawberry-blonde," says the other lady.
"Oh. Orange hair," says the first.

Carlotta would be fascinated to hear that her hair is orange. It is SO not orange.

My mind suddenly floods with trivia about this particular singer. All the alleged partying and hard living she does now. (When I got home, I did a Google image search to verify hair color. The fourth or fifth photo shows her topless. Might be photoshopped, but if so, it's the best photoshopping job, EVER. Classy!)

But, these ladies wanted to believe in a sweet little flame-haired teenager with the voice of an angel. Who was I to throw the cold water of tabloid rumors onto their fire?

I think I cared at all because I went to a book-signing of said opera diva-ette about five years ago at the Arlington Olsson's Books. I don't go to a lot of these things, so maybe all the "authors" do this, but this gal refused to sign anything but a copy of her crappy, hardbound "autobiography." (she WAS 15 at this time. Must've been quite the extensive read.) And then, she would sign only one item. One item per $25 purchase of said book. You bought an album of hers, and wanted her to sign the CD cover? Too bad. Unless you purchased the book, and wanted her to sign that instead of the book.

I opened the book halfheartedly to see what sort of fascinating revelations it contained. I read a short passage about how she, her mum and her stepdad, I think, were driving somewhere, and she belched, and one of her parents told her to stop, because it would ruin her voice. Tee-hee!

Blech.

And, long live Wales. May your ex-pats not shame you.