The following is the second in a series of columns chronicling my summer gallivanting around Europe.

My travel companion met its unfortunate and untimely demise in Germany. I knew the loud thud of gadgetry hitting the concrete didn’t bode well for dear Casi. As I ran up to inspect the scene of the accident, I could hear her little gears and motors whirring desperately, and I held her in my hands until she whirred no more. Today, I remember the passing of my fiercely loyal, sublimely sexy camera, Casi.

I had handed her over to a bespectacled man who looked as much a harmless pedestrian as my two friends and I looked like hapless American tourists. Gesturing from my camera to the large cathedral behind me and then to my friends, I asked him in oafish sign language to take a picture for us. He nodded obligingly, and I turned around to run back to my friends. Things obviously didn’t go as planned, as the next thing I heard wasn’t his German accent imploring us to ‘cheese!’ but the deadening clanks of a dropped digital camera.

It’s peculiar how much faith tourists have in the common stranger to help them along in their travels. Lost on the subway system? In search of the nearest bathroom? The locals of any foreign city bear great responsibilities in keeping young travelers off the third rail and safe from bladder explosions.

And to these ends, I wonder how fragile the trust and patience between inquirer and inquiree really is. For example, a woman not too long ago in London confidently pointed me and a group of friends in the direction of London’s enormous -ahem- pickle shaped building, the Gherkin, as we tried to find our way back home one late evening. We ended up wandering deserted streets in the direction of the Gherkin for three hours before caving in to paying taxi fare. The cabby laughed at our utter incompetence, “You blokes got played by a wee woman!” and drove us back in the opposite direction.

It’s not just a sport for the locals of any tourist spot, though. The thought of terrifying tourists has even crossed my mind as I settle into summer at Cambridge. An inexhaustible stream of Japanese tourists, clad in Mickey Mouse T-shirts and pink visors, routinely pass through the grounds at King’s College, their cameras flashing ablaze as I walk blindly to class. I am tempted to just take the camera and run the next time a family asks me to take their picture. Ahh, sweet karmic vengeance!

Really though, the relationship between tourist and local is an extraordinary one that I don’t think can be found anywhere else. Here is the golden rule, do unto others as you would have done unto to you, working like a charm. I am constantly surprised by the willingness of strangers to help me as I traipse around Europe.

That is, in all situations, except for this most recent one involving my camera.

“So sorry, I give you twenty euro!” It was a sound gesture from my camera-dropping stranger, but I didn’t really know how to react at the sight of Casi’s sleek red body lying dented and mangled on the floor. The camera lens was off-kilter, and it refused to retract when I pushed the power button on and off. Little scratches littered her once-shiny crimson exterior. I clutched Casi in my hands shocked by the suddenness of which I was now without any means to make a record of my trip to Berlin. The camera man eventually ducked away from the scene when standing with me mourning my camera must have become too awkward.

The man never produced his twenty euro note, nor did I push for him to pay for the camera. My friends and I just walked on and continued about our business visiting museums and engaging other German strangers with our tourist inquiries. The loss of Casi was a great one; she’s accompanied me humbly from beach sides to mountain tops this summer, and I pray she finally rests in peace.

Henry is a sophomore in Business. He thinks he’s handling this tragedy rather well, not least in part because he now has ample reason to go hunting for an improved top-of-the-line replacement for Casi.