Follow The Crimson's editors as they travel around the world this summer!

On 79th street, opposite New York City Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg’s townhouse, over 50 people stood chanting behind a police line: “The blood; the blood; the blood is on your hands!” The blood they lamented was that of geese.

Returning on a Sunday night from a weekend trip to Switzerland, I got into my apartment building’s tiny, old-fashioned elevator and everything seemed to be going fine. Famous last words.

In a province that most people would never be able to point out on a map, eight of us Harvard juniors sit quietly, draped over a separate piece of rosewood furniture in the hotel room.

I sat awkwardly, trying to think of an answer to a question I had now been asked one too many times: “How are you going to integrate your summer experience into your life at Harvard and beyond?”

Baseball is a game of regret. No one knows this more than the European baseball player.

I’d been dreaming of swimming through a vast black sea, and in the morning my bed was an island.

Nevertheless, the question still remains: how, in a nation so conscious of its past, can Drancy be allowed to be what it is today, a home as any other?

In that spirit, I decided that damn it, I was going to enjoy our excursion to Walden Pond.