This year, 22 February happened twice for me. The first time, I was flying from Auckland to San Francisco, crossing the international date line somewhere over the Pacific. I’ve never fully understood what actually happens at the date line. There’s an explanation – something about a group of men in Washington deciding where one day would end and another begin, drawing a line down the middle of the ocean. Knowing that doesn’t make it feel less strange. You fall asleep, and when you wake up it’s still yesterday.
Groundhog Day, except the groundhog was me, in my plane seat, eating something that had been described on the menu as a “warm pasta dish”.
