The Story of Marcel

Before I start into a fascinating story, I have one extra link concerning the UAH shooting. Yesterday marked the return of students to the campus, and a local therapy dog organization, Therapy Partners, was also at the scene to--well, what else? To comfort the still-stricken members of the UAH community.

WHNT, a local news station, has posted online its interview with Connie Gates, a Therapy Partners volunteer. Click here for the link. For those of you who are curious, or for locals who want to help out, here is the Therapy Partners' website.


The Story of Marcel

So, as a sort of "welcome back" to posting about Ze Deutschland, I now present you the story of Marcel.

Marcel and I had met back in January, and I suppose one could say that I happened to stumble upon her. At first, I thought she was just gender-confused, but I eventually realized that Marcel just emitted the confidence necessary to adopt a masculine name. How very literary, I thought, hearkening back to the witty and often biting prose of such greats as George Eliot and George Sand (the Georges of the literature world). Additionally, I felt that Marcel was in fact very Proustian, and I was proud of the fact that I could make such abstruse, snooty literary references for future blog posts. Though German, Marcel adopted the French lifestyle, and never in my stay here in Celle have I had to prepare so many baguettes smothered with brie. Although not myself a fan of Bordeaux wine, the drink's aroma caused Marcel's eyes to water with nostalgia of days in the French countryside, and the stories she told were among the most heart-wrenching I have ever had to pleasure to hear.

I thought her preference to remain on the ceiling, however, was a bit strange. But, seeing as it didn't hinder my daily life, I shrugged it off and went about my business. Her little corner of the room suited her, actually, and it occurred to me that, after living together for a month, her habits were curious and a bit discomforting.

For instance, she would lie still for great amounts of time, never flinching or breaking her gaze from her unassuming prey--a moth, or maybe even the lone beetle who crossed her path. There were periods when she would keep her living area clean, though now and again I would notice a limb or two from her previous breakfast hanging from the glistening white ceiling. And then there was the time when she completely packed up and moved all the way to the other end of my flat, without any notice or any consideration for my well-being. It just so happened that one morning, after having risen from a late night of chatting with other friends of interest (I had been wandering for some time now), I spotted her in my kitchen area.

Being a mild-mannered young woman, I said nothing of the matter and carried on as if nothing had happened. Sure, I would talk about Marcel to my friends back home--about her sudden relocation and her increasing weight--, but nothing had passed that would have caused me to talk to her about this new and unexpected situation. Sure, she was in my space, but I remembered the days of yore when she was a new and interesting friend, and when my pantry was safe.

This past Sunday morning, however, Marcel had disappeared from my sight, and she was nowhere to be found. Well, shit, I thought to myself in a slightly panicked tone, That damned spider is gone.

As someone who is trying to overcome her fear of spiders, this was not good.

After cautiously making myself breakfast and going about my day, I realized that most of all I was hurt. Marcel had betrayed my trust by breaching our pact: that she remain on the ceiling, a small, unassuming arachnid with the valor of a rock. No, she had to disappear, and, as some of my friends/therapists have suggested, to lay eggs. And it is quite possible that come spring I will be invaded by many other mini-wannabe Frenchies.

In this vein, I mildly contemplated exterminating Marcel if I were to catch her. Fortunately (for her), I spotted her yesterday, once again in her original position on the other side of the room. And I will admit that, when I saw her, the old affection returned. My friend was back, and for now we have agreed to a temporary truce.

...until she crawls off that damned ceiling, that is.