People who have spent any amount of time overseas just can't shut up about it. I know, because I'm one of them, but we're an hour into this drum corps luncheon and the girl across from me (to whom I haven't even been properly introduced) has not stopped for breath between anecdotes about her schooling in London and Edinburgh.

"Another thing that's weird about the UK," she drones, "is people don't even acknowledge you on the street. Like here, you'll just talk to people, right?"

"Apparently," I don't say, civilly nodding instead.

"When I first brought my husband here -- he's from Scotland" (she reminds us for the tenth time so far) "-- we were in this restaurant and I was just talking to the staff, and my husband won't look up. He's pretending he's not even with me, and I'm just like, 'What's wrong with you?' But he wouldn't even look at me."

"I can't imagine that," I remain silent.

"But then, when my mom came to visit me in London after that, we were on the bus, and there's this guy in a business suit across from us, right? And my mom just basically assaults him with words. The poor guy doesn't know what to do -- he's got a briefcase and he's hugging it to his chest, looking all around, acting like, who is this crazy lady talking to me and why is there no escape? We got to his stop, and the guy literally ran around four people to get to the door. When that happened, I finally understood what my husband was talking about."

I cast a sidelong glance at my section leader, who is desperately immersing himself in the Indycar engine check on the TV screen above us, attempting escape through complete sensory deprivation, and don't say, "Did you really?"