Albuquerque/Roswell, NM, November 2nd

There's Islamabad and Jalalabad. Then there's Carlsbad. Who knows, it would be just like that sneaky Osama to have slipped into the USA when no one was looking, and he likes hanging out in caves. So, I descended the 800 feet into the Caverns dreaming of that $25 million dollar reward.

The Big Room is awesome, with exquisite stalactites and stalagmites so exotic it's hard to comprehend that it's all acidic erosion of dead animal matter. By the way, no Osama, but if his caves are anything like this, he's wearing a heavy parka, wool socks and sleeping in bat doo-doo. Or, as they more politely say here, bat guano.

So, I had to do it, go to Roswell that is, site of the most heralded UFO incident in history. Supposedly, a UFO crash-landed near Roswell in 1947 killing all the cute little gray aliens on board. The army says it was a balloon, the faithful say "hogwash", and the controversy continues. The museum is a converted movie house showing the crash timeline investigation, and even has a pretty thorough research library for the serious ufologist. It's well attended and a bit tacky, but it's Mecca for the believers.

But the main reason I went to Roswell was to see the Robert C. Goddard wing of the real Roswell Museum, about a mile away. Early in the 20th century, Goddard, as a brilliant young engineer, envisioned mankind traveling to the planets, and tirelessly devoted his life to building the first working rocket. The museum has recreated his laboratory as it was in the 1920s, and movies of his early failed experimental rockets are, at times, comical to watch.

Throughout Roswell, signs direct tourists to the Alien Museum, and some store windows, to enhance advertising, display various depictions of the aliens who supposedly crashed in 1947. I didn't notice a word about Goddard.

Albuquerque is like most American cities of its size. The history of its inner core has become overwhelmed and engulfed by the sprawling suburbs of consumerism. And, the romanticism of Route 66, Central Avenue, has given way to the ordinary bars and cheap restaurants which tend to fill this sort of vacuum. It's a city in search of a new identity. Things change.

The Acoma Pueblo, 50 miles west of Albuquerque, sits atop a high mesa and it's comprised mostly of adobe huts, some dating to the 12th century. It is one of the most visited pueblos in the West. Only twelve small families still live there (as caretakers) but the historical architecture and way of life of these hearty people can be fully appreciated.

The one thing I found quite curious was their adoption of Catholicism from the Spanish missionaries, and how it's been melded with their own traditional religion. Catholic icons are displayed amidst Acoma symbolism, but no photos are allowed in the church or cemetery less the spirits of the ancestors be disturbed. Charming, yes, but Good Grief! (It seems incongruous in that they've rented out the pueblo on a number of occasions for John Wayne movies and car commercials. Wampum talks, forked-tongue walks.)

The El Morro National Monument is a curious site as well. It's a tall sheer cliff, which naturally funnels clear water into a pool below. Over the centuries, it was a convenient oasis for horseback travelers seeking refuge on the Colorado Plateau. Various bands would record their stay by carving their names or expeditions into the cliff walls. This graffiti, some from the 16th century, still remains.

The curious part is that these writings only state the name and date of the expedition, and just a few have an extra line or two indicating its destination. Other than a few primitive Indian drawings, there is nothing like the inventive and personalized graffiti we see around us today. It is safe to say that Kilroy never passed this way. Nor will it ever be recorded on these walls that I did.

Choice of music: The sweet and smooth jazz trumpet of Roy Hargrove's "Ballads". Truly, New Mexico is the Land of Enchantment.

Ciao, and on to Arizona