The night clock says it should be midnight, but my phone camera argues otherwise. No darkness, just an unapologetic glow across the water in Tromsø. Restaurants hum with chatter. A group passes on bikes, laughing. Sunset is suspended, as if time forgot its responsibilities up here.

Locals return each year for these weeks of constant light. My first evening, a friend invited me to join his group for a hike—starting at ten, boots kicking gravel, legs moving uphill while the city seemed stuck in golden hour. Not one person carried a flashlight. We sat at the summit, coffee thermos traded around, faces open to that bright horizon. Sleep felt unnecessary. No one seemed in a hurry; even the air felt less urgent.

In Kiruna last June, I ordered fish at half past eleven. Every table on the terrace still claimed company—alternating between card games and people watching. The waiter joked that midnight sun makes everyone nocturnal, unless you surrender and wear an eye mask. I didn’t.

Festival setups fill city parks. Outdoor concerts tumble late. Joggers surge through Helsinki past two in the morning. Not once did I feel adrift—energy lifts you, whether you chase it or let it find you.

There’s little reason to plan around daylight. Days exist, then don’t end. Forget schedules. Follow appetite. If you want sunset, you’ll need patience.

Let Wingman City Guide steer you to spots where sunlight lingers. Skål to summer that refuses a curfew. Turn on your out-of-office reply and meet us up north at www.wman.com.