Pops rejoined Mum outside the pavilion, where they had just told her dogs could not go in, even if she was in a carriage.
So Mom went in first, while we waited outside, and then Pops took his turn; in truth, the Centennial Pavillion, which is a demi-fabric tent structure of tan material and white metal was as miserly on the inside as it was cheap looking on the outside. Posters, a replica glider, and other artifact replicas graced the plain concrete floor under the open tent expanse, linked to the obligatory multimedia movie theater so popular in museums these days.
We supposed if the Wrights had flown in Texas or had been from Texas, no expense would have been spared for the Centennial, but here, it is just a people-processing place, less interesting than a convention center.
The circle drive around Kill Devil Hill was closed when we got back to the car, so we drove off, heading first to McDonald’s for dinner, and then to the hotel, where Mum and Trixie got a good view of the beachfront from the decks in front of the hotel. The surf was still churning up a frothy sea foam, incessantly rumbling and crashing into the shoreline. The sunset was beautiful, spoiled only by the fact that the foreground was a low line of buildings across from the hotel.