In a quest to further prove he should be my main man, Cade will become my Maine man this weekend. Jetblue flight credit from The Great Flight Cancellation of Spring 2007 was quietly expiring in a disorganized folder of my important documents. One of us complained that last summer was a bust, in terms of new experiences; the other agreed. I gave the papers to Cade, he planned a trip in a few hours, and then we ate spaghetti.

I've never been to Maine. When I think of it, I think of lighthouses and dark rocks along the shore and Robert McCloskey books I read as a kid. My to-do list for the trip involves experiencing all of these things and taking pictures that capture these experiences while my hair looks nice.

As with almost any trip to any city, Cade's plans look like a grocery list: lobster, clam chowder, beer... He likes eating what the locals eat at places the locals recommend, a strategy that can be amazing or painfully underwhelming. I am a different animal. I want to shop where the locals shop, which is hopefully not H&M or The Gap, and wander around where they'd wander, if they weren't watching Ugly Betty. But I don't mind eating at Subway in my neighborhood or in Buenos Aires. My palate is just not that curious.

I overthink travel. I tend to pack extra clothes I never wear, because I underestimate my tolerance for the area's temperature. Of course, I want to buy new clothes wherever I go, too, so that's an issue. The fact that Cade can bring a carry-on and personal item on the plane is exciting. I imagine his personal item will be my thrift shop booty. (Not that booty).

The accommodations are mysterious. Out-of-state hotel rates pale in comparison to the cost of lodging - hotel or apartment - in NYC. But who wants to pay a lot of money for a bed where strangers sleep, in a room covered in ejaculate, urine, and feces? I mean, I've seen those Dateline specials with the grave music and blacklights. If I'm going to snuggle with blankets covered in excrement, I'd prefer it be excrement that I know. I'm really tempted to extend this tangent with more joking about sleeping in my loved ones's laundry hampers, but I won't.

The hotel? Yeah, there isn't one. Cade and I are getting a vacation apartment rental we found on Craigslist. I proposed the idea, and ours appears to be legitimate. I have decent standards, minus the time I got a skin fungus from staying at a hostel downtown, affectionately deemed the hostile hostel. Should our weekend housing be amazing, Cade will never hear the end of it. Should it be a filthy scam, we'll at least have lighthouses.