Solstice

There are two things that remind me how far away from home I am. One of them is the time difference, which I don't always realize until I want to call family or friends at night but remember they're probably asleep.

The other is the sunlight.

Tonight is the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. It probably doesn't mean much to most people, but in Alaska, it is unavoidable. The sun will set here in two hours, at 10:24 p.m., ending a day that will have lasted 18 hours and 41 minutes.

I use the word "set" loosely, because the sun doesn't so much set as it naps behind a mountain for a few hours. There is never any finality to it, because it is never completely dark here. All night, the sky remains hazy with the slightest tinge of illumination signaling that it's never going to be night as you know it.

This can play with your mind. During my first night here, I woke up around 3 a.m. and again around 6, partly because of the jetlag but equally because it was broad daylight. Here, you only have about a two-hour window — from midnight to 2 a.m. — to fall asleep. Wait too long, and daylight will creep in, and sleeping will become harder and harder. It recently became necessary to start closing the curtain before I go to bed because it's just too bright.

At the same time, I often find myself imagining what it's like living here in the winter, when the sun sets at 3 p.m. and the rest of the evening is filled with darkness. Granted, this is not Barrow, where the sun sets for months at a time. But this strange schedule is a constant reminder that I'm somewhere totally different from anywhere I've ever lived. Houses and trees and people may look different wherever you go, but it's not difficult to identify them as a house, or a tree, or a person.

Nighttime, on the other hand, has never looked like this.