I heard about it and read about it, but I had to see it myself. Sure, they said Roswell is in the middle of nowhere. But when you actually find yourself in the flat, barren New Mexico desert and the only passers-by are tumble weeds, you feel an uncomfortable sensation. What if the engine went down and we all got lost? How far would the UFO knowledge of our car full of tourists get us without food and water? Would anybody whisper a prayer over our unmarked tomb? Thankfully, we did not find out. We actually enjoyed a joyful trip toward a small town that in 1947 was the theatre of the most famous and still highly debated -and denied by the Pentagon – UFO crash of all time. For me, even if I was doomed to have my bones scarred on the desert sands in New Mexico, death would have been sort of a sweet consolation because it would have marked the end of my UFO career where “it” all began.
As you may know, I’m originally from Italy and I suffer from a disorder that I call the “gladiator syndrome.” In Ridley Scott’s movie, the Gladiator’s Master, Oliver Reed chose magniloquent words to describe the glorious ways they were going to die for the bloodthirsty Roman people – honoring the then-capital of the known world with the pride of being a slave, ready to die and finally free themselves from the chains. Today, Rome is a significant example of a melting pot where 6 millions of of people fight their way to a better life, just as they crowd the perennial amphitheatre. Roswell does not have a Colosseum like Rome, not even a mini replica that you would find in Las Vegas. Roswell has only the Main Street, but it does have a museum (the International UFO Museum and Research Center) that for me is the inner sanctum of the entire history of the UFO phenomenon – and a must-see for everyone. The city itself offers no grandeur, no multicolored lights on an almost-anonymous boulevard. But there are lots of people, nice people who come from so many different continents and distant parts of the United States. Continua a leggere »






