Berlin Ohne-Scheiss

This street-art project by an artist calling himself Alejandro, should be exported to every major city in the world: have people mark dog-shit with red stickers.

(I believe there was a brigade once that put little flags on dog-poop, but I'm liking this better.)

« Ah, c'est vous qui chante si beau! »

A lift is a crazy place to receive a compliment. You can't simply nod, smile and walk on. So in my best French I try to say something that sounds like "Yes, I'm following classes at the academy," but comes out as "Yes, I..." Inside my head I curse at my stuttering, and let my panicky eyes glide to the numbers inside the lift. Only two floors to go.
She hasn't noticed my unease, nor my mumbled non-answer. Instead she talks about how her living companion said I was singing in the shower, but she was sure I wasn't. I didn't tell her I do sing in the shower, and in the living room, and in the kitchen, and sometimes in front of the computer, but I've given up on that, because my microphone isn't meant for singing, so it can never quite master the high and loud notes. I couldn't just overrule her triumph, could I? I just mumble. "Oui, " and "Non," and "Aucun problème," when she asks if her television is too loud sometimes.
If only someone could hand me a dummy guide to French conversation, I'd be most grateful. Or better: if they'd take over whenever I have to converse with someone I don't know very well, in whatever language, I'll be grateful even more.