Some vacations are just long enough. You go away for a week or so, and by the time the morning of that flight home � sometimes even the night before � in a quiet moment, you sit there and realize, Yeah, I'm ready to go home. You're ready to pull clothes out of a drawer rather than a suitcase, you're ready to do laundry, you're ready to sit down for a home-prepared meal rather than another night of figuring out the tip.

But then there are those vacations that end too soon, those that could go on forever, those that make you think, Do I really have to go back now? You get lost in your new life, of waking up and forgetting, for a moment, that you're not in your own bed, that today holds the promise of new discoveries and adventures that don't involve your voicemail or work e-mail account.

Our California trip was the kind I didn't want to end.

Unlike many of my past trips, you won't be getting a long recap of every waking moment, nor will you get a serial, day-by-day installment look back at our seven days from the 8:30 a.m. Newark takeoff on February 25 to the 6:20 p.m. landing on March 2. In some ways, it was a great vacation, the perfect break from Life. In others, it was just Life, West Coast. It was daily outings and good meals and great conversation with close friends. It was darts and British pop songs and making snarky comments about Renee Zellweger and Billy Crystal and Ian McKellan's rape whistle. It was seven days of laughs � sometimes to the point of tears � inside jokes and one-liners, of In-N-Out and celebrity sightings and dodging the raindrops.

So instead of an hour-by-hour recap of the week, I think selected vignettes will best serve as a written record of, as Casey appropriately called it, The First Annual Table In Hell Tour. I think all future get-togethers should just be called Table In Hell Reunions.

I'd been to L.A. twice before, and had been to LAX just once. We flew in there in 1990, but flew home from San Francisco. In 1998, I drove there across the desert, past Twentynine Palms and through Palm Springs. I had no idea the airport was so close to the Pacific.

Yet with my previous trips having come in July, rain in Southern California was new to me. We experienced it four of our seven days there, but Friday, Saturday and Sunday held the kind of sunny and warm California climate the Mamas and the Papas sang about. So it was somewhat disappointing when we heard the announcement at the Getty Museum that the gardens were now closed because of the rain. We should've wandered the grounds first, then looked at the exhibits.

When I spotted an old man using a portable monopod with a seat to take some of the strain off his legs, I remarked what a great idea that would be for a night at the bar. When all seats and stools are taken and the weight of the beer is making your feet swell and your knees ache, just pull out the monopod!

Walking into the Gothic Page exhibit (really cool, old, ornate books of parchment and gold leaf-highlighted illustrations, some of which look like elaborate doodlings):

DAN: It's going to be dark and moody in here.

CASEY: "I hate the world. Nobody understands me."

SOME BABY: Gah gah nah nah.

I also decided that, in the event I someday have a son, it may prove too tempting not to name him Daniel The Younger.

Thursday morning, pre-Disneyland, Swinger�s Diner, the corner of Beverly and Laurel, 10:25 a.m. I sat with my back to the door at the diner to which Heather directed us for breakfast our first morning in L.A. Casey had first view of the people who walked in, so when she started hyperventalating the way she does when she sees a cute, fluffy kitty, I thought someone had walked in with a pug on a leash or something. Instead, I learned, it was a Stuckeybowl sweatshirt. But before she could even explain that, I looked up as Michael Genadry � he played Mark Vanacore on Ed � walked past us with a female friend and took a seat in the open booth in the back of the restaurant.

The Mind Control Division of the Walt Disney companies certainly is not in need of improvement. When we crawled through the parking garage to our spot on Thursday morning � after driving through some scattered showers on the 405 � there was the makings of a good crowd for the day. There were plenty of other cars, people of all ages in raincoats or just shorts and t-shirts heading to the ticket booths and waiting in lines no more than a dozen people deep. It looked like, once the clouds cleared, it would be a decent day at the 49-year-old park.

Then it poured. For about 15 minutes while we stood online, exposed to the weather. Our raincoats kept us dry above the knees, but there was nothing we could do about the drops bouncing off the pavement, soaking our shoes and pantlegs. Some left the line and took cover up against the ticket booths, but we stood like statues, not wanting to think about what we'd do if it didn't let up.

We got the tickets � of course, there's not even a $2 discount for the weather at Disneyland � and sloshed through the gates and walked literally down the middle of Main Street, USA. No need to dodge any crowds. The rain continued and we made our way to the indoor Pirates of the Caribbean ride, then hightailed it to the Haunted Mansion. Soon we were laughing at the lemming-like tendencies of ourselves and our fellow patrons. But it paid off in the afternoon when the sun came out, and so did the local residents. By 3 p.m., it looked as if Disneyland also served as a latchkey program for area schoolchildren. But while the crowds increased, the lines didn't get much longer; our longest stretch of idle time came while waiting to go on our last attraction, Autopia, and that was only 20 minutes.

Having visited Disneyworld and Disneyland 54 weeks apart, we were in a position to compare and contrast. Rides like Pirates and It's A Small World are different, and California's castle looks like a child's backyard playhouse in relation to the massive structure at the center of the Florida park. The California establishment, built earlier and smaller, is much more managable in one day and doesn't require a 6:30 a.m. wakeup call or a long day lasting until 10 or 11 p.m. in order to fit everything in. Florida, of course, also has the lure of Epcot. All things considered, I prefer an hour or so of rain and temperatures in the upper 50s to a sweltering summer day. It's the difference between 10-minute lines for the rides and hour-and-10-minute lines.

Disneyland also has Mickey's Toontown, a neighborhood geared toward children featuring characters (and a wild ride) from Roger Rabbit. There's a facade of a town, with buildings you can walk through, like Mickey's and Minnie's homes, right next door to one another. There's also a gazebo. "It's like Stars Hollow," Casey said, "only CRAZY."