When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. ... Next, he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay." JOHN STEINBECK, TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY

It must be one of two things.

1) In a week I will be leaving on a wonderful, 10-day (perhaps 11) vacation with Casey that will encompass everything from the comforts of western Pennsylvania home to the fun of Chitown to the solitude of South Bend in summer.

2) It's been two months since my last trip.

Either way, there's something inside me that lights up every time I drive past Newark Airport on my way from North to South. I watched the planes taking off today, and felt as if I were traveling myself, as if I'd take the exit for the airport and hop on a plane. Or as if I wouldn't have to continue onto the Parkway and down to Monmouth County and work. I wanted to just head west on I-78 and take off across the Delaware.

It happens every year at this time. I've made late June/early July my Go Time, the time I get on a plane or a road and go far, far away. It started in 1998 after graduation, when I left on July 2 to begin my cross-country road trip. In 1999, if was a flight to Phoenix for a June 26 wedding. In 2000, it was a little later in July for a Chicago wedding that included two nights in Batavia, Upstate, N.Y., on the way back. Last summer, it was Nantucket then Cincinnati (for yet another wedding) then Boston, all in one vast trip. This will be the fifth straight year for a long midsummer trip going at least as far west as Chicago or (in the case of last summer) covering 1,000 miles on the road.

Part of it may have sparked yesterday, when I did go west on 78, but not to the Delaware. I went to The Mall at Short Hills, which I feel should be said with an upturned nose and an exaggerated Mr. Howell from Gilligan's Island accent. (Is that a good enough example? Do young people know of Gilligan's Island anymore? If it's not on Nick at Nite, does it still hold relevance?) You know The Mall at Short Hills (not the Short Hills Mall) is upscale, what with its Tiffany's and Nieman Marcus and elaborate tiled floors. Where middle-class malls have minivans and SUVs on display in the concourse, The Mall at Short Hills has a yellow Porsche Boxter and a Bentley. A Bentley! You hardly see those on the road, for Henry Ford's sake.

My trip to The Mall at Short Hills was fruitless; I couldn't find the bee-print shower curtain at Pottery Barn. So I wandered a little more to enjoy the free air conditioning, just like all the old people passed out on benches throughout The Mall at Short Hills. Seriously. I wonder if they have to send security through the place each night to wake up all the old people. They probably have to do it around 6:30 so they can all get home in time for Jeopardy!

I was about to leave The Mall at Short Hills, when I descended to the lower level and scanned the menu at American Joe's Cafe, which looked like a nice little Friday's-esque eatery. I actually walked away, but then looked in the window at the bar, saw the Bass Ale tap, and retreated for a pint. That was nice: To sit in a bar at 4:30 in the afternoon and sip a pint of Bass Ale before the dreaded drive to work. I'll go shopping anytime, Casey, at The Mall at Short Hills. If I disappear, look for me on an American Joe's bar stool.

So today I'm feeling all productive and domestic. Instead of sleeping in after Casey left for work, I was up and in action while she showered. I packed up some things, including sweatshirts and other winter clothes, to bring down here to the parents' pad for summer storage. On Fridays in the summer, it's necessary for me to head south early to beat all the northerners and New Yorkers who spend their weekends down the Shore. The Parkway turns in to a parking lot around 4 p.m. I'm currently in the midst of four loads of laundry, with half of one dry, another half on the line, one in the dryer, one in the washer, and the towels left to go. It's gone well, and I haven't ruined any of Casey's things, and (though I don't want to get too cocky here, but I feel confident) I think I'm well on my way to proving my competence. I don't know how often I'll be able to do it, however. Mom and Dad are away right now, but for most of the summer, the teachers will be here, and I'd feel uncomfortable hanging six thongs and a pair of red "DAMN" panties on the line while my dad mows the lawn.

All this housework has made me hungry.