"I'm going to be in Spain." "I'm biking through Italy." "I'm working in DC." "I can't wait to go home." When summer plans have come up lately, I am forced to sheepishly admit that I am going to be in Cambridge for nine out of the twelve weeks of summer. Somehow, it doesn't have the same exotic cache as Madrid--where one of my best friends from high school will be--or the romantic appeal of Florence--where my other best friend from high school will be. They're planning to meet up at the end of the summer in England. I'm not even privy to the upward political mobility that Washington, D.C.--the summer of home of my best friends at Harvard--seems to hold.

Summer activities are currently the topic of choice for brief conversations with acquaintances I run into. And they have fallen into a familiar, and humbling, pattern.

Acquaintance: Hey what's up?

Me: Not much, how are you doing?

Acquaintance: Not too bad. I have (two labs, three papers, five exams, insert concentration specific but always heinous workload here), but I want to go out this weekend so I have to get stuff done. And I haven't even started the paper for my core class.

Me: That sounds rough--but I guess summer's almost here. That's encouraging.

Acquaintance: Yeah, I'm really psyched about that. I'm going to be in Australia doing research on coral reefs. I can't wait. What are you doing?

Me: Oh, I'm going to be in Cambridge, doing community service and hopefully doing some research.