As we walked through the door to the exhibit, the little angel fixated on a diamond tiara in the entryway, an enormous photo on the wall of Diana wearing a different one. More than one diamond tiara: the true mark of a real princess.

As we passed through the rooms highlighting the Spencer women and Diana's early life, Beloved showed the little angel Diana's ballet shoes. "She was a normal little girl?" asked my daughter.

Well, sort of. If being a British aristocrat is normal. But yes, sort of.

When we saw her wedding dress, the little angel noticed there was another tiara. Then the dresses. Pictures of her wearing them, doing charity work, at balls. It was in the dress room that it dawned on me that I am older than Diana was when she died.

I was most surprised by the room -- the room -- containing books of condolence from all across the world. I never understood the Diana phenomenon. I didn't stay up to watch the royal wedding. I remember not understanding what she saw in Charles, not grasping she married at nineteen, was dead by thirty-six.

And that's what the little angel clung to -- how had she died? In an car accident. Why was she being chased? People wanted to take her picture. In a car? Why would they want to take her picture in a car? If she was not smiling? Were they bad guys? Were they trying to hurt her?

No. It was an accident. They really just wanted to take her picture.

And then, it came out of my mouth: "I guess that's why we shouldn't want to be famous."

I've been turning that over in my mind since Friday when we went to Union Station. Fame, such a strange thing. The same force that begat an entire room of books of condolence, diamond tiaras and televised weddings also inspired high-speed car chases and an unfortunate and untimely death.

"But she was a real princess?"

"Yes, real princess. And now I suppose Kate Middleton will be a real princess."

Whatever that means these days.