Alhambra – About Things That Matter

An 82-Year Old’s First Experience with Marijuana

Well, o.k., I finally did it. I smoked some dope here in Spain.

I had always wanted to. It’s been on my bucket list. But the opportunity never really presented itself – not in all my nearly 83 years of life.

That’s all changed now that I’m in Granada where recreational marijuana is legal and easy to get.

Besides that (as I’ve written in recent posts) I’ve fallen in with a group of Albaycin street musicians. They routinely smoke marijuana mixed with tobacco. They’re always rolling joints, and nobody bats an eye.

As a matter of fact, smoking in general seems very popular here. And down in the gritty Plaza Larga, where I usually meet my troglydite friends, people constantly roll cigarettes.

One reason is because Lucky Strikes and Marlboros are now so expensive. They’re nearly five Euros a pack. Taken together, loose tobacco along with filters and paper (often sold in the same plastic pouch) are much cheaper.

Nonetheless, my friends tell me that the people of all ages I see in restaurants rolling cigarettes for an after-dinner smoke are probably doing a joint. Again, nobody bats an eye.

Anyway, let me tell you about my recent experience, how it arose, its particulars, and resulting advice from smoking experts.

The Idea Occurs

As I was saying, my musician friends smoke all the time. But they’ve never offered me even a drag. I suppose that has something to do with my age. Also, they know I was a professor in some U.S. college, and a former priest. I think in some weird way, all that related to their never offering. But it made me wonder all the same.

Anyway, head shops are plentiful here in Granada – especially if you count the omnipresent “Tabacs” where they sell lottery tickets, bus passes, cigarettes, loose tobacco, pipes, bongs, hash grinders, rolling machines, and other cannabis paraphernalia.

So, when I was walking down Calle Puentezuelas a week or so ago, I found myself amid tiendas like those. In fact, there were lots of interesting stores there – especially in the light of my practice with Tarot cards over the last few months. (I’m trying hard to become what they call here a “Tarotista.” I practice every day with readings exploring my own psyche and spiritual state.)

For example, one store not only sells cards, incense, crystals, etc., it also offers Tarot card readings (25 Euros), along with shell divinations, and cigar smoke interpretations (40 Euros). Another store offers similar services for twice the price.

For me, the most interesting shop is a rather large one that has a Buddhist orientation. It sells things like statues, medals, pulseras, fountains, meditation cushions and clothes, prayer flags, and those incense sticks and crystals I mentioned. I often go in there just walking around and looking. Very interesting and somehow calming.

On one of my most recent visits to Puentezuelas, I saw for the first time a shop specializing in legal marijuana. I went in and inspected.

“Just looking,” I said when the clerk asked if he might help. Later, I added, “What would you recommend for a beginner like me?” He showed me a node of “Wedding Cake.”

“This might be a good start,” he said. “It’s pretty mild.”

On impulse, I bought a packet for five euros. Later, I visited a Tabac on the Gran Via Colon and added a plastic grinder along with some paper, filters, and a butane lighter.

I went home, rolled a joint, and lit up.

My First Time

Well, to tell the truth, it wasn’t that smooth.

First, I had a hard time rolling the thing. Yes, I watched a video on YouTube. But that didn’t help much. Eventually though I did get it together — kinda.

Also, before smoking, I watched a well-done cartoon video about a college student’s first experience of marijuana. It was quite entertaining and raised my anticipation level. The student reported:

A non-stop laughing fit.
Disappearance of time-consciousness.
Seeing the colors of everything like trees, flowers, billboards, cars, and clothes with greatly enhanced hues and degrees of intensity.
Experiencing his feet and hands growing by meters in extension.
But being able nonetheless to walk with delight and exhilaration.
Having such a good time that he smoked another joint immediately afterwards.
With similar effect.

So, with all that in mind, as I said, I lit up.

At first nothing happened. After my first couple of drags, I started coughing. But I finished the joint anyway.

In a few minutes, I could feel my perceptions changing. It was like I was getting drunk. So, I went to my room and stretched out in bed.

Then I realized:

I had no urge to laugh.
My mouth was extremely dry.
My tongue felt swollen.
I couldn’t get out of bed.
If I were to try, I I’d fall down for sure.
I was immobile.
I felt completely drunk.
For about an hour.

Expert Advice (from Three)

1. Matteo’s Counsel

The next day, while doing my daily walk down the Gran Via Colon in Granada’s center, I came across Matteo, a young musician friend from Italy. As usual, he was carrying his guitar uncovered despite the season’s slight drizzle.

We stopped and talked. I told him of my experience with “Wedding Cake.”

“Oh, that’s no good,” he said. “That’ll never get you high. Here, let me share what I smoke.”

So, then and there on the Gran Via, in front of the Cathedral, in that slight shower, he rolled me a joint all the while giving me step-by-step instructions about doing it right.

“Try that,” he said.

I went home and did.

Same effect as described above.

2. Simon Knew Better

The next day, I spoke with my closest street smart friend, Simon. He’s the busker I first met in the Plaza Larga – the 60-year-old Chilean who’s helping me with my Spanish (with my “Castellano,” he insists on calling it).

Simon had already heard from Matteo about my experimentation and experience. He was laughing about it.

“The problem is,” Simon advised between chuckles, “you’re smoking alone. Also, even the stuff Matteo gave you probably isn’t strong enough for you. Give me ten euros and I’ll buy you some good stuff and we can smoke it together. It’ll get you laughing in no time.”

I gave Simon ten euros.

The next day, we met. We walked to Simon’s favorite haunt near the Plaza Larga, sat on a bench and lit up alternating drags and just talking.

Then it hit me. But it was the same experience I shared earlier. I soon felt completely drunk and unable to walk. My tongue was thick. My mouth was dry. And I was slurring my words. It was an hour before I dared to get up from that bench. The weed hadn’t produced even a smile.

I resolved that my experimentation was over. I don’t like that drunk feeling.

3. Mauricio’s and Filson’s Guidance:

Nevertheless, the next day, when I went up to our roof patio overlooking the Alhambra’s environs, I found Mauricio, a 60-something next-door neighbor, smoking weed on the adjoining patio. He was talking and toking with Filson, a young African woman from London. Mauricio is a pianist from the Netherlands. Filson is a writer and lives in a cave not far from Simon’s. I had met her previously in the Plaza Larga, where we had talked about mushrooms.

Anyway, I had gone up to the patio for my morning coffee and tostada. I noticed the two smoking, so I interrupted. I told them of my two recent experiences with marijuana.

A suddenly interested Mauricio said, “Oh, that’s because the weed you smoked wasn’t the best. Here, let me give you some of mine. No, I insist. Take it. It’s great. See if it makes a difference.”

Mauricio went inside and returned with a handful of the stuff he was recommending.

“Anyway,” he added, “weed isn’t for achieving those changed perceptions that YouTube video described. It’s just about relaxing. Lots of times, when I can’t sleep because of some worries I might be having, I just light up. It relaxes me, and my worries disappear. The other stuff about colors and limb extension is a myth – at least in my experience.” Filson agreed.

Conclusion

Later, when I told Simon about Mauricio and Filson, he just smiled. He knew of my resolution to smoke no more.

“Well,” he said, “why don’t you just let me roll you a joint with Mauricio’s stuff? And then when and if you might feel ready for another go sometime in the future, we can smoke it together.”

He rolled and gave me the joint. I put it in a safe place.

I’m still thinking about the matter.

I’m Stopped and Frisked by Granada’s Puta Policia

It was an extraordinary experience. As an 82-year-old American tourist, I never anticipated anything like it happening to me in Spain.

I had spent the early evening in the nearby Plaza Larga with friends I’ve written about previously. It’s become my favorite spot in Granada.

Together, we had done some Tarot Card readings and discussed Bob Dylan, the Frankfurt School of critical thought (especially Herbert Marcuse’s Eros and Civilization), conspiracy theories, the U.S. Federal Reserve, the images on the back of U.S. dollar bills, and the direction of “universal history.”

About the latter, I had recommended to Francesco, a brilliant intellectual and bibliophile from Italy, the work of one of my Great Teachers, Argentina’s Enrique Dussel. His work on universal history has been mind-blowing to me. Since he is also an historian, I was anxious to hear Cesco’s evaluation of Dussel’s work.

In the midst of such conversation, as if from nowhere the puta policia (“effin cops” as my friends call them) showed up. There were four of them. – all about the age of 40, around the age of my own children. (Actually, I could have been their grandfather.)

They frisked us all (including me!) and wrote us up in their ledgers. (I’m not sure what they’ll do with the papers they filled out. None of us was given a copy.)

It was a clear exercise of “power over,” of classism and discrimination against people simply because they are poor.

Earlier in the day, I had witnessed something similar in a place they call “El Huerto” (the Garden) where I spend a good deal of time. The Huerto is an extensive park very close to the Alhambra. The still snow capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada stand breathtakingly in the far horizon.

The park features a kids’ playground and exercise machines installed especially for elderly people like me. It’s also a gathering place for hippies and street people. Some of them sleep there overnight usually in sleeping bags. It’s also a kind of dog park as evidenced by dog waste lying here and their awaiting the morning visit of street sweepers who keep the Huerto relatively clean.

The place is also “decorated” with graffiti denouncing the puta policia, pledging love to Noemis and Rodrigos, and expressing support for Palestinians and Ukrainians. One of the inscriptions reads “I’m in the love.”

Anyway, I had just finished my morning workout and was sitting in the shade catching my breath.

A young African man sat off to my right, about 20 meters distant.

Then all of a sudden, two police motorcycles converged on him, seemingly from nowhere. They hemmed him in, though he made no effort to “escape.” The cops made him stand up with his hands in the air. They pushed him around a bit, had him empty his pockets, and then patted him down. I watched the whole thing thinking “I should be filming this.” I didn’t dare.

The young man offered no resistance and gave the impression of having gone through the drill many times before. He was harming no one.

I make that observation because my busker friend, Simon, constantly complains about gratuitous police harassment. It’s something I’ve previously written about here. Again, it’s all about classism and criminalization of poverty. When I later told Simon about what I witnessed in the Huerto, he said, “Of course, they harassed him. He’s black.”

In any case, and as I was saying these cops were suddenly on our case too – criminalizing us as we sat around a stone public bench not ten meters away from the outdoor Aixa Restaurant. That’s where I often take breakfast of tostada and café. Aixa’s patrons were enjoying wine, beer, and tapas.

“You know you’re not supposed to be drinking beer in public, don’t you?” the cops accused, ignoring the diners so close at hand and the fact that no one harasses normal tourists walking around the Albaycin with red-canned Cervezas Alhambra in hand.

“Empty your pockets, all of you,” they demanded. We all did so obediently. My friends demeanor showed me how to act. Eyes were cast down. No talking back. Serious looks on everyone’s faces. Wordless glances exchanged between us expressing exasperation about the whole reason for the unfolding process.

“They just don’t have enough work,” one of my friends growled sotto voce. He nodded towards the cops.

The latter were especially interested in examining and sniffing the tobacco pouches nearly all my friends carry. (All of them roll their cigarettes.) The cops were looking for marijuana. They found some. It was confiscated.

Then one of them turned his attention to me. “Stand up,” he demanded. I obeyed. “Turn around!” He patted me up and down and actually grabbed my genitals and squeezed them. Again, I’m 82 years old! I’m obviously a tourist. “Por favor!” I objected. The cop was unphased.

[By the way, I find interesting my internal reaction to that manhandling by the cop. I had never experienced anything like that. Afterwards I almost felt guilty – the way women who are sexually assaulted often report feeling. I thought, “Why did I let him do that?” Should I have resisted or pushed him away? But of course, I couldn’t. That’s because the cop wasn’t really looking for something hidden in my crotch. (What, I, this elderly American tourist was hiding marijuana or something in my drawers?) No, he was asserting power. That’s what law enforcement does everywhere to poor people. It tells people like my friends, “You’re nothing. We can do whatever we want with you. Never forget that. We’re the law!”]

“Show me your identification,” the cop ordered. I obliged producing my residential permit.

“You’re an American, right? Why are you here?”

“I’m a tourist staying with my grandchildren and their parents. We’re all here to learn Castellano.”

“Are these your friends?” the cop asked bruskly.

“Yes, they are,” I confessed.

“They shouldn’t be,” came the reply. “They’re bad people.”

“That’s not my experience,” I said. “They’re some of the finest people I know.”

Islam as Progressive, Reformed Christianity: 10 Reasons We Don’t See That

Living here in Spain, for the last few months has given me a new appreciation of Islam. As some might remember, my wife, Peggy, and I are here with our daughter, son-in-law, and their five children (ages 3-14). We plan to stay till the end of June.

Our rented apartment stands in Granada’s historic Albaicin district overlooking the 10^th century Islamic walled city, the Alhambra. Right next to us you’ll find a mosque with a tall minaret. Five times a day we hear the muezzin summon us all to pray. Many of the churches here are also converted mosques distinguishable by their keyhole or horseshoe arches.

This intense Islamic presence has led me to rethink the prejudices I’ve inherited about Islam as backward, misogynistic, violent, and anti-Christian. For the most part, these are misconceptions.

Let me show what I mean.

Islam as Christianity

To begin with, I’ve come to understand that Islam is a kind of reformed Christianity. Yes, I think It’s a branch of Christianity. In fact, one might say that the transformation of Christianity and the ecumenical movement itself began with Muhammad (570-632) in the 7^th century – roughly 1000 years before the Great Reformation begun by the likes of Jan Hus (1369-1415), Martin Luther (1483-1546), and Jean Calvin (1509-1564).

As a Christian reformer, Muhammad (like some other “heretics”) recognized Jesus as the greatest of the prophets, but not divine. He evidently saw the divinity part as a Roman fabrication. At the Council of Nicaea (325) it turned the great Jewish Reformer into a dying and rising Roman mystery cult god like the Roman Legion favorite Mithra.

Mystery cults believed in gods who descended to earth, died, rose from the dead, and then offered to their faithful eternal life if they ate the god’s body and drank its blood under the form of bread and wine. The upshot for Christians was a central liturgical ceremony (the Mass) that in Roman times was mostly indistinguishable from mystery cult ceremonies.

Muhammad saw through all of that. He rejected Jesus’ divinization as a violation of Judaism’s (and emerging Islam’s) fundamental monotheistic principle. Consequently, and even apart from Islam as a separate religion, that rejection gives Muhammad his own place in the line of the great biblical prophets and reformers. His surahs in the Holy Quran could easily be considered a later addition to the Bible.

As an ecumenist, Muhammad recognized several religious traditions as inspired. Accordingly, his Islamic movement blended Jewish traditions, Christian beliefs, and Arabic spirituality and practice. So, 1300 years or so before the start of Christian ecumenism (at the Edinburg World Missionary Conference in 1910), Muhammad started the ball rolling.

As I’ve suggested elsewhere, Muhammad was also a type of liberation theologian. He was a champion of social justice and an early feminist.

Islamic Scholarship

Muhammad was as well an advocate of education and learning. And since Islam was undeterred by Vatican fundamentalism and its suspicion of science, Islamic scholars in centers such as Baghdad’s House of Wisdom anticipated by centuries the achievements of Europe’s Renaissance, Scientific Revolution, Enlightenment, and Industrial development.

So, precisely during the centuries when Christian Europe was sunk in its Dark Ages, Islam experienced a contrasting Golden Age of Learning across Eurasia and up into the Philippines. And this despite mighty resistance from Rome and Europe’s Catholic royalties still mired in superstitious darkness.

In fact, during the 1400 years that Europe was controlled by Moorish armies, Islam’s enlightened philosophers, theologians, mathematicians, astronomers, inventers, architects, poets, and artists did some of their best work (like our neighboring Alhambra) “over the heads” so to speak, of their resistant and backward European Inquisitionists.

It was only after the Moors had been driven from Europe that leaders like those mentioned earlier followed Muhammad’s lead with their versions of church reform. It was only then that artists like DaVinci and scientists like Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton copied (usually without attribution) the achievements of their scholarly Muslim antecedents.

Islamophobia

Well, if all of that is true, why do so many have such negative attitudes towards Islam? There are many reasons. Here are ten of them:

Eurocentric Education: How many of us westerners (whatever our level of education) have studied Islam and its history? How many know that Europe’s “dark ages” were accompanied by that just-mentioned Golden Age of Islamic science and learning precisely within (but also far beyond) Europe’s borders? Speaking for myself, I must admit that my own Eurocentric schooling has excluded encounter with humankind’s most significant Islamic achievements. These include the monumental contributions of Muslim scholars such as Al-Farghani (+861) in astronomy, Avicenna (980-1037) in medicine, and Averroes (1126-1198) in philosophy.
Christian Ideology: Christian ideology explains the eurocentrism of western education and its erasure of such Muslim highlights. That is, the west’s promotion of the prophet Jesus to the divine status of God’s only son inexorably led to the establishment of Europe as supposed ruler of the entire world whose principal rival was Islam.
Christianity’s Deadly Syllogism: Christianity established itself as world hegemon according to something like the following quasi-syllogism. (1) Jesus Christ is God, (2) God owns the entire world, (3) The Catholic Church (led by Rome’s pope) is Christ’s representative on earth, (4) In God’s place, the church of (European!) Rome therefore enjoys the exclusive right to govern the entire world, (5) Lands (like Arabia) not controlled by the church are illegally occupied by God’s enemies, viz., Arabs (6) Those enemies deserve to die by holy wars and torture.
The Legacy of the Crusades: The holy war part of the syllogism’s conclusion took the form of Christian Crusades (1095-1291) aimed at “recovering” from Arabs parts of Arabia considered as belonging to Europeans according to the ideology just summarized. (Again, our Eurocentric education leaves virtually unquestioned the “fact” that Jerusalem and surrounding holy sites were European property and therefore “recovered” by the Crusades.)
A Similar Legacy of the Inquisition: The torture practices of the Spanish Inquisition (1478-1834) were aimed precisely at Muslims and Jews. The atrocities and accompanying rationale left deep impressions of anti-Semitism and Islamophobia on the collective western psyche.
Reducing Islam to Islamic Fundamentalism: The negative (but largely unconscious) legacies of Crusades and Inquisition have led most Eurocentrists to ignore progressive Islam and to identify it exclusively with its most narrow, closed, and conservative versions – for instance as practiced today in Iran or Saudi Arabia.
Ignoring Islam’s Political Achievements: As biblical and Jesus scholar Reza Aslan reminds us, there are 1.5 billion Muslims in the world. Pakistan’s dominant interpretation of the Quran is not the same as Turkey’s. The same is true for Indonesia and Saudi Arabia. In Aslan’s words: in Turkey for instance, women “are 100% equal to men.” Muslims have elected seven women as their country’s head of state.
U.S. Empowerment of Muslim Fundamentalism: Tendencies to reduce Islam to its fundamentalist versions have been aided and abetted by U.S. political and military practice. Over the years, the United States has given rise to and allied itself with Islam’s most reactionary interpretations. In Iran, for instance, decades of support for the ultra-secularist dictator, Reza Pahlavi, led to a nationalist pendulum swing that replaced him with an ultra-conservative form of Islam. In Saudi Arabia, the U.S. has allied itself with Islam’s most fundamentalist form, Wahabism. In Afghanistan, U.S. support of the narrow-minded Mujahedeen eventually gave rise to al-Qaeda and ISIS.
The Aftermath of 9/11: The latter, of course, have been blamed for the attacks of 9/11/2001. This in turn led to furious Islamophobia in the United States and among its allies.
Misdirected Feminist Concerns: Again, Reza Aslan reminds us that Iranian and Saudi Arabian controversies over women’s attire are not universal in Islamic countries. Moreover, he points out that concerns about female genital mutilation do not represent an Islamic problem, but an African one. 90% of females in Eritrea undergo circumcision. Eritrea is a Christian country. 70% of women in Somalia are subjected to the practice. Somalia too is a Christian country.

Conclusion

Muslims may not agree with my assessment of their religion as a kind of reformed and ecumenical Christianity. But I think the evidence is there and would love to hear from Muslims on this point. At the very least, Muslims and Christians have far more in common (good and bad, progressive and not) than our culture allows.

In any case however, (as Aslan suggests) Islam like Christianity and other spiritualities is “just a religion.” This means it is not inherently violent, patriarchal, backward, or misogynist. In those terms, it instead takes on the values of its practitioners. If they are violent, their practice of Islam (or Christianity) will be violent. If not, it will be peaceful. The same is true for patriarchy, misogyny, and rejection of science. With its 1.5 billion adherents, Islam is far too big and widespread to be pigeonholed in such stringent terms.

Living here in Spain has helped me realize all of that. It has exposed my Eurocentric miseducation while helping me think about and appreciate the west’s profound debt to the prophet Muhammad.

Second Report from Spain

Flamenco Dancer in Elaborate Cave Home

As you may have noted from previous postings, Peggy and I have joined our daughter, Maggie, her husband, Kerry, and their five children (Eva 14, Oscar 11, Orlando 10, Markandeya 7, and Sebastian 3) in Granada, Spain. Peggy and I have been here just over two months. (Please forgive any repetitions here. But I want to tell the story from the beginning.)

It’s all been quite fascinating.

To begin with, the two of us came across from New York to Southampton on the Queen Mary 2.

Neither of us had ever traveled that way – seven nights at sea. And it was unforgettable. It included all you’d expect, fabulous meals, first class entertainment, live music that never stopped, dancing, lectures, films, and long hours in silence on deck chairs contemplating the Divine Presence of ocean and sky. It was all magnificent.

However, upon arriving at our destination, I came down with a severe case of COVID-19. So, I started out on the wrong foot. That called for 10 days or so of isolation and recovery.

Nonetheless, since arriving in Granada, the QB2 magic has continued. We’re in the city’s Albaycin neighborhood just above the famous 11^th century Alhambra – a Moorish fortified city that draws tourists from all over the world. From the roof patio of our artistically decorated three-bedroom apartment you can see it all.

We can hear its uniqueness too, since we’re located right next to a Mesquita, a local mosque. When we’re on our patio we can see the muezzin and hear him sing the Salat calling his fellow religionists to prayer five times each day. Peggy and I treat it as a summons addressed to us as well.

Our barrio is also in the heart of what remains of Spain’s Gitano (Gypsy) culture with its famous Flamenco music and dance. On one high holiday here, Peggy and I stole a front row seat at a serious Flamenco performance in the square adjacent to our apartment. It was beautiful. Another night our whole family crowd attended a performance at a cave-turned-into-a-house in the nearby Sacromonte neighborhood. This area is covered with caves where people live. (But more about that later.)

Since our arrival, we’ve done some tourism too. For instance, we spent an unforgettable four days walking the famous Camino Santiago de Compostela. I tried to make it the spiritual experience reflecting its original intention (and rediscovered the rosary in the process).

It was also fun watching my grandchildren enjoying the same experience at a different level – all anxious to collect stamps recording their progress in their pilgrimage “passports.” For my part, arthritic knees confined my own advance to maybe 25 miles of walking over the 3 days of actual pilgrimage. My passport contains only a few stamps.

From there, we all traveled to Bilbao. We stayed a couple of nights there in a classy hotel. Visited the Guggenheim and a Fine Arts museum. Then it was on to Madrid and the Prado where, we enjoyed a guided tour pitched to the grandchildren’s interests and understandings. Of course, we barely scratched the museum’s surface.

Then a couple of weekends ago, Peggy and I traveled to Europe’s southernmost geographical point. We spent two nights in a beautifully simple hotel in Tarifa near the point where the Mediterranean and Atlantic Ocean flow into each other. We took in a newly excavated Roman City (Baelo Claudia) near Bolonia and Cadiz. There were also the remains of Moorish forts and palaces to see in Tarifa itself. All quite interesting.

As for my exclusively personal interests, I’ve been intent on recovering my understanding of the Spanish language and a greater fluency in expressing myself. So, I took “classes” for 10 days at a language school just down the street from us. The sessions consisted in conversations with 4 different professors. During the one-on-one periods, we mostly talked about Spain, its history and culture.

I was especially interested in the years during the dictatorship of Francisco Franco (1939-1975). I wanted to know how Spain made the transition from Franco’s fascism to its present situation where it’s governed by a coalition of the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party (PSOE) and a rechristened Communist Party called Podemos (“Yes We Can!”). Of course, there remains a lot for me to learn there.

Since finishing my “classes,” my continued interest in improving my language and cultural understanding has moved away from the language school to the street. I’ve made friends with a very interesting street musician from Chile. He’s 60 years old and is a kindred spirit. He lives in a cave neighborhood across the valley from us and high above our apartment’s location. There are about 40 people like him living there. All live in caves; none pay rent. Many are ex-military who have been alienated from “normalcy” by their experiences in the army.

I’ve mentioned Simon in a previous posting. But I’ve been learning more about him. He knows I’ve been a writing teacher and wants my help in authoring his autobiography. He also wants us to study the Mayan Popol Vuh together. Just this morning he invited me to visit his cave community. I intend doing that tomorrow. I’ll soon tell you whatever I learn there.