Jet lag is a form of nostalgia for the body. I lie here in my hotel room in Ukraine at 3am, and my body imagines itself back in DC. My wife and I talk to each other about our days, we cook or exercise or delay doing little chores. Outside the bright twilight sky peers between the tall trunks of trees. It is a time to be awake, to be alive. And ~30 hours from now, perhaps I will wake up in my own bed, with my sleeping wife beside me, and I will peek through the window blinds not knowing what to expect: a starry sky, the glimmer of dawn, or maybe a distant city of gold domed cathedrals where revolutions are talked of as yesterday and shrines to martyrs line the city square.