Five Time Zones, One Meeting

Rhiannon had been put in charge of the quarterly review, which meant persuading five offices to share a single one-hour video call. On paper it sounded straightforward. On a Tuesday morning in July, she opened the team chat and typed her first suggestion, still convinced that the whole thing would be settled before lunch.

Rhiannon (Vancouver, 8:02 a.m.): Morning, everyone! How about next Thursday at 9 a.m. my time? That would be 11 a.m. for Camilo, 5 p.m. for Benedita and Tunde, and midnight for Arnav. Sorry, Arnav.

Arnav (Manila, 11:04 p.m.): At midnight I'll be sleeping, or at least trying to. Unless the review is about dreams, I'd rather not.

Tunde (Lagos, 4:06 p.m.): And at 5 p.m. on a Thursday I'll be sitting in traffic. You'd get a lovely view of the lagoon and not much else.

Rhiannon (Vancouver, 8:09 a.m.): Fair enough. What about 4 p.m. my time, then? Arnav, that would be 7 a.m. on Friday for you.

Benedita (Lisbon, 4:11 p.m.): Which would be midnight for Tunde and me. I'll be fast asleep, and I can guarantee Tunde will be too.

Tunde (Lagos, 4:12 p.m.): She's not wrong. Nobody wants to see me at midnight.

Camilo (Bogotá, 10:13 a.m.): May I point out that every option so far works perfectly for me? Bogotá is in the middle of everything. I'll be waiting patiently while the rest of you suffer.

For several minutes, nobody typed anything. Rhiannon drew five clocks on the back of an envelope, crossed most of them out, and stared at what was left. Only a narrow window was left in which nobody would be asleep, and it began far earlier than she would have liked.

Rhiannon (Vancouver, 8:21 a.m.): Okay. What if we met at 6 a.m. my time? That's 8 a.m. in Bogotá, 2 p.m. in Lisbon and Lagos, and 9 p.m. in Manila.

Benedita (Lisbon, 4:22 p.m.): Two o'clock is lunchtime here. I'll be eating grilled sardines, and I refuse to apologize for it.

Tunde (Lagos, 4:22 p.m.): Same, minus the sardines.

Arnav (Manila, 11:23 p.m.): 9 p.m. is fine. I'll be having dinner, but I promise to mute myself while I chew.

Camilo (Bogotá, 10:23 a.m.): 8 a.m. is perfect. I'll be on my second coffee.

Rhiannon (Vancouver, 8:24 a.m.): And at 6 a.m., I'll apparently be awake. Booked.

Benedita (Lisbon, 4:26 p.m.): Just so you know, we'll be doing this again in the autumn. Portugal turns its clocks back at the end of October, and after that I'll be an hour behind Tunde.

Rhiannon (Vancouver, 8:27 a.m.): Of course you will.

So the following Thursday, at six in the morning, Rhiannon switched on her camera in a dark kitchen, holding a bowl of cereal. One by one, the other squares lit up: Camilo with his coffee, Benedita with a plate of sardines, Tunde with a bowl of jollof rice, and Arnav with a bowl of noodles. Breakfast, coffee, lunch, lunch and dinner were all on the same screen. "Good morning, good afternoon and good evening," Rhiannon began, and for the first time in weeks, everyone laughed at once.