Roswell, New Mexico is a land of stark nights and bright stars. A small town with a big reputation. Where you walk in to get a cup of coffee and an eighty year old ex-military man in a beret comes in, plays one song on the guitar, and leaves. A land where tires spontaneously shred along the highway and within seconds three prison guards getting off work are changing your tire like a NASCAR pit crew.
I headed down to Roswell alone; just me, my car, one the open desert roads. One thing brought me there, Pinatafest 2015, but the culture kept me. Though Pinatafest was a small time festival with only twenty attendees that I saw, Roswell is full of stories like the ones mentioned above. You come for the aliens, but stay for the coffee, hoping that man will come in and play just one more song.