WILTON PARK, UK—On our day-trip into London, we made a stop at the American embassy. A fairly heated discussion about Guantanamo Bay and torture completely dominated the hour we spent there. Guantanamo was raised simply as an example of an issue that must very carefully defended overseas; I believe our speaker merely referenced it in passing. The minute the issue was raised, my European and American colleagues took the opportunity to delve in more deeply. We hardly discussed anything else from that point.

Much of the critique I had already heard back in the States, even by some of our own policy makers and elected officials: violating the Geneva conventions, hypocritical, immoral, secretive, detrimental to the West’s efforts in the Middle East, and a bit disgraceful overall. One of the American students said “embarrassing.”

WILTON PARK, UK—My introduction to London was four hours spent in the Gatwick airport, with a splitting headache, no Starbucks in sight (I was in the wrong terminal for that), and in a pair of shoes that I’ll never wear to travel again. It was 3 AM on my body’s clock, so I sipped on a sub-par latte, wishing desperately I had a British accent and all the sophistication it implies, and prepared myself for the week ahead by browsing the latest Economist. I had intended to read it on the plane, as well as a whole stack of intellectual material, but the screaming infant in front of me had other plans for our seven hours together.