After New York City, Adam and I went to Nags Head, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, to see his dad and stepmother. David and Cathie's house is a short walk to the beach, which is gorgeous.
Our big outing was to the Wright Brothers National Memorial in nearby Kill Devil Hills. It was my idea, even though I'm not usually one for memorials; this one just needed to be seen. Inside the midcentury building, which looks like it belongs at an airport, is an exhibit that tells the story of the Wrights' achievement. It's nice and concise, although I could do without the prompts for schoolchildren. ("What's your passion?" "Make a drawing of something you've achieved.") The highlight of that exhibit is definitely the replica of the brothers' aircraft, which was larger than I expected.
Outside are markers showing the lengths of the first four flights: Three are only around 120 feet; the fourth was much longer, 852 feet. (That expanse of lawn, meanwhile, is dangerous, full of sand spurs and prickly pears.) There's also a hilltop memorial that's less impressive than the photo below might lead you to believe, because it tops out just beyond the photo's border.
David had told us that the National Monument includes an airstrip on the other side of the trees, and sure enough, a plane took off while we were there. That airstrip seems like a concession opportunity for the National Park Service: Why not let pilots fly sightseeing flights from there? As neat as it is to stand right where history happened, nothing makes the Wrights' efforts real like seeing planes—or being in one—take off and land right next door.
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Then we drove to Durham for the joint birthday party of friends Tracty and Evan. On the way, we saw something we'd never seen before: cotton fields.
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I loved Andrew Miller's novel Now We Shall Be Entirely Free so much that for two days I was guaranteed to mention it to anyone I came across, including several guests at the birthday party. I was drawn to it because a New York Times reviewer compared Miller's writing to Hilary Mantel's, which I can see if I squint. But it's its own thing, most marvelously. As I read, I kept seeing the novel as a film. Here's hoping someone makes it.
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I have a thing against wheelie bags, and of course I prefer not to check a bag, so I have to pack extremely efficiently if I'm going to carry a week's worth of crap over my shoulder. I'm not afraid to cram stuff—in this case, a Ziploc bag of fregola sarda (like Israeli couscous, but better because it's toasted)—into shoes that would otherwise sit empty. When the TSA stopped my bag for extra screening, I told the agent that I always seem to get in trouble for using my shoes as storage, and that I guess they make it hard to see what's inside. He pointed out the real problem was that Richard Reid used his shoe to hide a bomb. Doh!