Helsinki, the Midnight Sky

Nordic impressions, embracing the impermanence of experiences

Hello from New York,

I recently experienced a breakup. It was sudden but definite.

As I reflect on our recent memories, I realize that was my last time on the train to Ronkonkoma to visit him, the last time we watched The Residence together… the times I was not quite ready to say goodbye.

Logically, I’ve moved on. Emotionally, not yet. I realize at this moment, I want to hold onto these memories and not relinquish them. Why let them drop so easily and quickly?

I savored the mental reels of memories we’ve shared. Instead of turning away by keeping busy, I sat with and lean into the weight of these emotions. Living in the moment doesn’t mean just living in the present joy but also in the present melancholy. It means fully accepting and embracing the full spectrum of human emotions.

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lapland, midnight sky.

I took a train with a friend I met in Helsinki around midsummer, heading north to see the midnight sun. Lapland—the northernmost region in Finland—probably has one of the lowest population densities in the world. The scarcity of human activity has left the vast wilderness pristine, almost untouched.

I lounged at a wooden amphitheater, staring into the distance at the sun resting low on the horizon. The soft rays cast goldenrod reflections onto the lake. It looked like an 8 p.m. summer sunset, yet when I looked at the clock, it was 11:30 p.m.

"Ready for the hike?" my friend asked. We embarked on a trail around koivusaari.

koivusaari Finnish: [ˈkoi̯ʋuˌsɑːri] an island in Rovaniemi, capital of Lapland. koivu = birch, saari = island.

The sun never fully set that night. Around midnight, it hovered just below the surface of the water. The goldenrod rays mixed with the cold mist rising from the lake turned pink.

When I summon memories of that hike, salmon-colored sun rays come to mind. A color perhaps made possible by these peculiar rays bouncing through a sparse birch forest under the midnight sky.

I've never seen those colors before—or since. Only in this quiet, quiet country.

When I think of Finland, I think of those salmon-colored sun rays.

Photo taken on July 13, 2018, Koivusaari, Rovaniemi, Finland.

helsinki. cafeteria.

"This plate of food cost 2 euros and 50 cents. Forever. " Jouni said matter-of-factly as we sat at the uni cafe (his go-to spot in Helsinki). That day’s menu was simple and hearty: herring in a creamy sauce, golden potatoes dusted with sprigs of dill, and a small side of pickled vegetables.

It's a societal problem there: you can continue to study, obtaining one Master’s degree after another, because it's free and because one can. And uni cafes like this offer affordable meals to continuing students.

It sounded like an easy way to sidestep the realities of working or making a living. But what’s reality anyway? In Finland, the reality is that you can live like this—indefinitely—if you choose.

He told me about a term called osa-aikatyöläinen. It's the idea that working part-time makes more financial sense than full-time. I remember the long Finnish word to this day.

osa-aikatyöläinen Finnish: [ˈo.sa‿ˌai.ka.tyø.læi.nen] someone who works part-time by choice, supported by strong welfare systems.

Perhaps they are societal problems. Perhaps they present unparalleled opportunities. At the core, these policies offer people time, space, and freedom of mind to explore and create. What might one achieve when the daily struggle to survive is removed? Finland was also one of the first countries to experiment with universal basic income.

“It’s good that you started learning Finnish. And you should find a way to continue.” I concurred. I had all the intentions to stay longer.

In the two months I spent in Finland, Jouni was a close friend. We shared comfortable silences. I’d message him out of the blue, and he’d do the same. We had open conversations about our cultures. Because of him, I got to see up close a culture that would have otherwise remained distant.

Then I decided to travel and flew away. I thought I’d be back soon and we never really said goodbye. These snippets of conversation still resurface in my mind from time to time.

Drawing of my meal on July 10, 2018. Uni Cafe, Helsinki.

stockholm, medieval bar.

I bought a ticket from Beijing to Stockholm to meet a Tinder date. It was the most expensive first date I’ve ever gone on (by an unreasonable margin).

I landed at 4:30 p.m., with a flight out the next morning. The train from Arlanda airport looked exactly like I remembered seven years ago.

We met on the bridge and wandered around gamla stan. I’d walked these streets solo years before, hurried and goal-oriented while checking off destinations. This time, it was different. We went to his favorite local bar. It was medieval-themed and I had fun hearing him order in Swedish. We talked for hours. It was an eight-hour date.

gamla stan Swedish: [ˈɡâmːla ˈstɑːn], gamla = “Old” stan = “Town”, Stockholm’s original city centre with a labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets, alleyways, rust-colored townhouses, and meeting squares.

He mentioned we could go to a plant-based restaurant and the amusement park next time. I wished there could be something more beyond that night and was glad he seemed to feel the same.

Today, I realize there won’t be a next time. All possibilities were frozen within that evening. He has a life in Stockholm. I’m not ready to give up my ambitions in New York. But, I’m grateful that in that evening, there was a next time.

Like Princess Ann said in Roman Holiday, “I will cherish my visit here in memory as long as I live.”

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When I was in college, I thought friends were forever. I had a group in college known as the 'Fabulous4'. They celebrated my birthdays. On Chinese New Year's Eve, when I thought I’d be alone, they drove me out for Chinese food. It meant so much.

They were there for me. I imagined them as my future children’s godparents. They were the best friends I could’ve asked for.

We don't talk anymore. I'm not sure why, except for two words: life happens.

At first, I felt sad. I wasn’t ready to let go. I reached out a few times, but we live in different cities now, and the ‘Fab4’ identity fizzled with time.

Like the moments I gathered from the Nordics, they were in my life for a finite time.

And as time passes, I find it less and less likely that I’ll relive these memories. Just like the salmon-colored sun rays, they were concretely in my life for moments, days, or years, not more or less.

Instead of holding onto the hope of recreating the past, I’m learning to embrace the beauty of transience — the impermanence of experiences and relationships. Things will never be the same if I try to relive them. I’m just grateful that I was lucky to have experienced them.

Perhaps serendipity will bring me back to the Nordics one day. For now, I’d rather focus on the people who are in my life in the present, along with the endless possibilities still to unfold.

Special thank you to friends from Write of Passage and Essay Club for the feedback, edits, and brainstorming: Jake Ballinger (

Jake Ballinger

), Matthew Beebe (

Matthew Beebe

), Malar (

Malarkodi

), Michael Dean (

Michael Dean

), and Oscar Hong (

Oscar Hong

).