"I have ancestors from so many different countries I'm prejudiced against myself," N. Rob Willis tells me as he relates how he fell in with this Welsh crowd.

We're sitting in the coffee shop of the Oliver Building, where Mr. Willis works as a records technician for a big law firm. Sitting with us is Garnet Roth, who put us together because she's trying to generate publicity for "the pesky red dragon people."

That would be the Welsh. The North American Festival of Wales is at the Hilton Hotel, Thursday through Sunday. Hundreds will assemble under the Welsh flag, which has this way cool, snarling red dragon on a green and white field. But you can wave that in front of Kaufmann's clock at high noon and it still won't get your convention much attention, not in the G-20 summit month.

Hence my sit-down with Mr. Willis.

"I think," he tells me straight away, "you have me confused with my twin brother." Then he shows me a photo of another bearded guy who looks like him, only the guy is wearing fifth-century threads.

That's his alter ego, Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons. He'll be leading a children's program at this convention, which is fitting, as this 41-year-old became smitten with Welsh lore when he was just a kid.

Wales, west of England, is the odd country out when most Americans think of the British Isles. There's England, of course, with its royal pageantry and rock bands, and Scotland to its north, with its kilts and bagpipes and that great Mel Gibson movie. Then, just across the Irish Sea, is Ireland, which has dibs in Pittsburgh and in so many other American cities on the biggest parade.

It's tough for the Welsh to get noticed. How many people have heard of St. David, the little guy who was purported to orate with such command that the ground rose around him to put him above his audience? The date of his death, March 1, 589, is St. David's Day, but it's St. Patrick's Day, 16 days later, that gets all the attention. The local St. David's Society has taken to marching in the St. Patrick's Day here, a smart pan-Celtic move but also an if-you-can't-beat-'em-join-'em one.

Mr. Willis says one of his earliest memories is asking his father to explain what Britain was. Then his dad took him to see "Excalibur," a 1981 King Arthur flick with wizards, warriors, a magic sword and Helen Mirren. A teenaged boy in Squirrel Hill asked himself, what's not to like?

Mr. Willis' dad's side of the family is English and Welsh, but his mom's side is all-Mediterranean. It from her that he inherited his Jewish faith. He jokes that at Arthur's round table, he'd be "Sir Goldberg."

Don't confuse his joking with not knowing his subject. The King Arthur legend is said to come from Welsh warriors who defended Celtic kingdoms against Saxon attacks, but when I asked Mr. Willis for his favorite King Arthur film, he said that learning history from Hollywood "is like relying on 'Star Trek' for a physics lesson."

He has not been to Wales, but has taken classes in Welsh from a University of Pittsburgh biochemistry professor, Rhob Evans. At least one class was held in the Welsh Nationality Room in the Cathedral of Learning, patterned after an 18th-century non-conformist chapel and dedicated in 2008.

Pennsylvanians ought to know more about Wales. William Penn wanted to call his colony "New Wales," and by 1700 a third of its people were Welsh, most of them Quakers. In Western Pennsylvania's early settlements, church services were held in the Welsh language, and Pennsylvania has the most people claiming Welsh ancestry.

This convention, which features hymns as well as beer, is dedicated to one people but it intends to be far more inclusive than the G-20. "Everybody who has $15 is invited," Ms. Roth explained.

Oh, and if you want to double-check any of these facts, don't call Rob Willis on his cell phone. He doesn't have one. "I'm living in the Dark Ages," he explained.

For more information, go to nafow.org or call 412-731-3489 or 724-449-3359.