He has to set things right, or at least try to, but is limited by time.
Grey and dreary, the Kiev airport stares oppressively back at him from the other side of his window, and he thinks momentarily of booking an immediate flight back to the US.
"Nyet!" he vows as his facile mind effortlessly orients itself to the required lingua franca. He would not forsake his compatriots, all of them willing die in order to push a beleaguered nation into a modern economy and fight indefinitely against the entrenched puppets who inhibit labor, stifle growth, and the national prosperity that would result from joining the European Union.
No longer drowsy, his every step across the causeway linking airplane to airport, infuses him with both energy and the happy anticipation of meeting with the activist leaders who wait nearby. Will they agree to his plan? Can he make it all happen before the thirteenth of January when he must return to the California and resume his other life?
"As God wills it," he says quietly to himself and follows the signs with their Cyrillic characters that seem odd but comforting. It's late night in this time zone and he draws little attention from a few jet-lagged travelers who trudge from sign to sign until arriving at the place where he will retrieve a single but crucial piece of luggage..
He thinks about the sun, the warmth that blessed his face on a far away beach. Did he make the right choice? His elderly parents in Fresno will worry about his absence. Those friends along the coast might miss him.
"Cause is all," he tells himself and reaches for the carefully packed suitcase.
No more kissing the poisonous tit of Mother Russia, he tells himself. The Ukraine will rise from its knees and embrace the future.
Then a few more of his lanky strides, and he is beyond the airport's final doors, exposed to a chilling wind and the embrace of a half dozen strangers. Are they friends or Yunukovic spies?