Miscommunication (Or, Adventures in Semantics)

Setting the scene:
I’ve just exited a fine production of Stravinsky. I’m stepping outside onto the patio with everyone else to congratulate some of the players and enjoy some tasty hors d’oeuvres and light conversation (or light hors d’oeuvres and tasty conversation, whichever you prefer. But you get the idea). In any case, as I was standing there enjoying my pate and eloquently pontificating to a most patient listener on the striking similarity of Stravinsky’s piece to Charlie Daniel’s masterpiece “Devil Went Down to Georgia”, when a nearby lady ambles into the conversation. I’m unsure of the exact conversational entry point, but I only remember hearing a heavily accented voice (addressed to my companion) “You know, Stravinsky was Russian. By the way, you shouldn’t eat that brownie. Brownies will make you fat.” Shortly thereafter, I found myself asking her questions about her background. “So you’re from Russia? What part?” etc. She explained that she was from a couple of hours outside Moscow. I then proceeded to ask what I thought was a fairly valid question. “So, where you’re from, is it a bigger town or like, a smaller village?” Her face contorted into a look of pained confusion. “What?” she snapped loudly.
Had I said something wrong? Maybe the synapses had misfired, and my brain said one thing and my mouth another, something inane and offensive, like “sweatshops are okey-dokey” or “underarmour is acceptable Saturday night casualwear.” I haltingly tried again. “Uh, you know, the place where you live, is it a larger town or like, a smaller village?” Her face settled into an expression of oh-yes-of-course. “Yes, I live in a village, there’s only about 400,000 people that live there.”
I’m glad we got that cleared up.