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We often let ourselves get lost in our privilege. Swim in it, then let our ignorance rub us dry. I closed my eyes and let the reggae music fill my pores, the red and green hued lights staining my skin. I forgot where I was. I felt a hand grab mine in the sea of dancing beings also consumed by the lullabies of Bob Marley. It was Candra, one of the hosts from my hostel. Candra. “The moon.” An appropriate name for a man who is just as lost in space as I am, beautiful nonetheless. We danced until our legs begged for forgiveness. We stepped outside and I remembered where I was --- the breathtakingly stunning archipelago, Gili Trawangan. I leapt back in time. There are no cars on the island. No engines, no traffic beyond the horses galloping on the broken, unpaved streets. People ride their bicycles avoiding the earthquake induced holes filled with pieces of old tiles and dirt. “I am a nomad, like you,” Candra said. My heart opened. “A kindred spirit,” I thought. “Yeah? What countries have you been to?” I asked. “I’ve never left Indonesia.” My heart sunk. I could only reflect on what he’d just said. What a naive question for me to let spill out of my lips. We continued on our path home, the ocean to our right, the moon reflecting on the now black water. The Moon. Candra. I felt my privilege sit heavy on my shoulders. The island is filled with cats. Their tails are shorter than the usual cat, coming to a bulbous stub at the end, attributable to crossbreeding. I stopped and offered my hand to the tattered looking little angel in my path. He stroked his face against the back of my open palm. “You have a kind spirit,” said Candra, “the cats know you love them.” I allowed myself a smile. I said goodbye to my feline friend and we continued on our way home. I bobbed my head to the various genres of music at each passing bar, fading as we turned away from the beach. We passed a white mosque where I had earlier seen young girls outfited in colorful hijabs, sitting in organized rows on the ground. I took a moment to remember their joyful, girlish, voices praising their God, Allah. A few more steps down the dirt road and we arrived at our quaint, quirky, little hostel. We removed our shoes before entering -- a common practice in Indonesia. The tiled floor was cold on my feet. A welcome feeling as the heat continued to cling to my skin like a thick dew. Our conversation didn’t feel complete, so we sat on the bamboo mats, leaning on the textured beanbags and continued to connect. “I would love to leave Indonesia and see the world,” said Candra, “but, even with a Passport us Indonesians are very limited with where we can go.” My privilege tingled in the back of my neck. Candra told me about how he left his suffocating corporate job a few years ago and has been travelling Indonesia, working in tourism and hospitality. “I like to meet people from all over the world and learn about the places I hope to visit someday,” he said. “I really like this hostel,” he exclaimed. I nodded in agreement. “The wood on the roof, it’s from the old ships. Strong, and very difficult to cut through. A lot of love and hard work went into this building.” I could feel it. The moment left me with a sense of devastating safety. Safety and privilege. The roosters announced the impending sunrise. The morning was creeping up on us, the moon growing faint. The hooves of the working horses clicked on the ground, their bells jingled a sweet song, as they galloped down the narrow street beside us. “What does your name mean?” I asked. “A God of the moon, or just the moon,” he replied, “That’s why I’m always awake late into the night.” A God of the moon. They say there’s a man in the moon; he will forever remind me of my privilege and the man who longs to see the world -- Candra.