Traveling in Europe after college, I met three lively Danish boys: a quiet photographer, whom I had a crush on; a boisterous architecture student; and a sweet saxophone player. They offered to host me while I was in their hometown. All three lived in a sparsely furnished apartment by the harbor. It was June, so we made the rounds of graduation parties, the most highly anticipated of which would take place on Midsummer, a Scandinavian holiday celebrating the longest day of the year. On that night the sun never set. The closest it came was a purple twilight where you could just make out the stars.