So you’ve promised yourself that one of these weekends, on a moment’s notice, you’re packing a bag, gassing up the car, and getting the hell out of Dodge. And why not? You’ve been working hard; you deserve, in the words of Bridget Jones, a mini-break.

The question is, where to go? There are literally hundreds of worthy destinations within driving distance, and you certainly don’t have enough vacation days to tackle them all. You could pull out some stuffy guidebook — but really, who has the time or patience to wade through all that, well, guiding, when all you really want is to get a recommendation from a trusted friend, hop in the car, and go?

Just call us your trusted friends. Here are some of our memorable little journeys; try some of these, or blaze your own quick-trip trail.

Newburyport, Massachusetts

I’ve been spoiled by movies, I suppose, where you can journey to the limits of the universe, the imagination, and bad taste — and that’s just the trailers. So a whole weekend jaunt has a lot to live up to. A return to a pristine, earlier state of existence would be nice, or perhaps a combination of childhood, the 19th century, and unspoiled nature, all within easy reach of transportation, with an up-to-date concession stand, and stadium seating.

Except for the latter, Newburyport fulfills these requirements. The commuter rail (www.mbta.com) gets you there in about an hour, and a cab takes you from the station to town in minutes; if you have the same driver we did, he’ll cheerfully tell you that your hotel, the Garrison Inn (11 Brown Square, 978-499-8500), is haunted. That’s acknowledged by the desk clerk, who notes that it’s haunted by Sarah, the daughter of the inn’s namesake and former owner, the great abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison. Sarah’s a friendly ghost (our light flickered and the bathroom door kept closing) who complements the comfy period ambiance of the suite, topped off by the fine food in David’s (978-462-8077), the restaurant downstairs.

The ghost of my own childhood stirs in the quaint downtown, from the soda fountain and racks of comic books in Fowles Coffee House (17 State Street, 978-463-8755) to the Formica diner tables and crusty waitresses at Angie’s Food (7 Pleasant Street, 978-462-7959); from the black-and-white frappes in Gram’s Ice Cream (40 State Street, 978-465-8515) to, inevitably, the pre-multi-screen charms of the Screening Room (82 State Street, 978-462-8769).

But I’m here to escape such artifice, and there lies the trip's main allure: the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge on Plum Island — seven miles of brush, dune, scrub, wind, gangplanks, and open sea, dotted by brilliant glimpses of 300 bird species (my favorite: the Greater Yellowlegs). All real, no special effects, genuine escapist fare.

— Peter Keough

Portland, Maine

" A lot of fun for a little city, " goes the motto of Maine’s largest town (a teeming 65,000 people). Maine isn’t a state known for its hubris, so you can bet that it’s true. The fun only increases if you eschew the Victorian B&Bs of red-brick-and-cobblestone Portland in favor of accommodation outside the city. We spent the night at the Inn by the Sea (Route 77, 800-888-4287) in nearby Cape Elizabeth. The rambling manse, standing majestically over a soft sand beach, offers an idyllic way to soak up great ocean views in princely comfort. Cape Elizabeth is also the home of Portland Head Light (Fort Williams Park, Shore Road, 207-799-2661), the most photographed lighthouse in the world; it was commissioned by George Washington in 1791 and frequented by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

After a few hours of breathing the sea-salt air, we ventured downtown. First on our list was the I.M. Pei–designed Portland Museum of Art (7 Congress Square, 207-775-6148), a surprisingly well-appointed collection featuring works of Maine masters like Winslow Homer and the Wyeths, as well as a fine Impressionist collection. (Take a stroll through the " Robert Doisneau’s Paris " exhibit if you visit before March 24.)

Soon enough, it was time to eat. Portland is an ideal walking city, and it’s only a short amble down to the cobblestone alleyway that plays host to Street & Co. (33 Wharf Street, 207-775-0887). When there’s eating to be done in coastal Maine, seafood is de rigueur — and Street & Co. serves it up with class. When we’d filled up with fish, we headed up from the waterfront toward the old-timey Bramhall Pub (769 Congress Street, 207-773-9873) for a pint or three of Maine’s best microbrews. If you happen to visit the Bramhall on a Thursday, expect a frenetic bluegrass serenade by local favorites the Jerks of Grass. Their guitarist plays so hard and fast that he’s worn a hole through the thing with his pick. A lot of fun, indeed.

— Mike Miliard

Princeton, Massachusetts

These days, you don’t have to be a fan of Little House on the Prairie to yearn for a true getaway — sans TV, sans telephone, sans technological wonders like e-mail. And Bostonians don’t have to imagine Little House’s Walnut Grove location to find solace, either. Just about 60 miles west of Boston lies a nature lover’s dream: the idyllic New England town of Princeton. We took a scenic drive on Route 31, past bucolic fields and wooden barns, before ending up at the base of the towering Wachusett Mountain, in the heart of Princeton.

Mount Wachusett (Mountain Road, 978-464-2987), as the locals call it, offers the perfect atmosphere for escape. The peak, one of the highest in the state, boasts 17 miles of winding, whimsical trails, on which you can trek through brush, forest, and scrub. We spent the day climbing, listening to nothing but birds and breeze. Atop Wachusett, a staggering 2000 feet, we soaked up the spectacular view — from Mount Monadnock to the north, to the Boston skyline to the east, to the Berkshire Hills to the west.

After several hours of heavy-duty hiking, it was time to relax. We pulled into a prominent local haunt, the Harrington Farm and Country Inn & Restaurant (178 Westminster Road, 978-464-5600), which sits on a quiet road at the bottom of the mountain. This 1763 Victorian farmhouse features elegant yet quaint décor — classic pastels, floral prints, and doilies. We stayed in one of the inn’s three guest rooms, each decorated with the farmhouse's original furniture and overlooking the rolling hills and forest beyond. To our delight, we lounged on the spacious front porch, munched on appetizers, and sipped cocktails while watching twilight descend upon the town.

Once we filled up on succulent smoked salmon, we moved into Harrington’s high-end restaurant, which offers a seasonal menu full of exotic ingredients like rack of lamb, loin of venison, and duck. The four-star dining experience was so divine that we didn’t even flinch at the cost (entrées ranged from $19 to $25). After all, we didn’t want to relive the no-frills Little House lifestyle; we just wanted a momentary break from urban chaos.

— Kristen Lombardi

Wolfeboro, New Hampshire

As a tourist, I hate tourists — which is why I’ve learned that the best time to visit tourist destinations is often when " tourist season " has just passed.

Case in point: Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, the self-proclaimed " Oldest Summer Resort in America, " where the tourist season lasts from early June through the end of the autumn foliage, usually late October. I have relatives there, so my wife and I usually stay with them when we visit. But this past November, we decided to visit incognito, and we enjoyed our best-ever Wolfeboro long weekend.

Wolfeboro is a tiny town nestled on the banks of Lake Winnipesaukee. Rising from the lake are the wooded foothills that lead north to the White Mountains. On some level, Wolfeboro seems a bit too On Golden Pond to be real. Every house on North Main Street is painted white with dark shutters. Downtown seems to offer more spaces to park boats than cars, and the red-cheeked locals wave to one another from their pick-up trucks.

Our stay at the Wolfeboro Inn (90 North Main Street, 800-451-2389) was perfect — if you don’t mind a little draft. We stayed in the older portion of the inn, so you may want to ask for a room in the more modern wing. Our favorite restaurant was a little pub inside the inn called the Wolfe’s Tavern (603-569-3016), but if you’re looking for a more elegant meal at city prices, try a charming joint called Love’s Quay (51 Mill Street, 603-569-3335). Yes, the weather was cool, but just because we weren’t swimming in the lake doesn’t mean that we weren’t enjoying it — there are several boat-rental-and-charter companies in the area that offer access to New England’s largest lake. Boating, hiking, shopping, eating, even sightseeing post-leaf-peeping season — and we had it all to ourselves.

— Scott Kathan

Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts

I arrived in Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard a bit skeptical; the bulk of my knowledge of the island came from an Inside Edition special on Chappaquiddick and the fuzzy summer-vacation memories of my friend Charlotte, for whose wedding I had made the bus-to-ferry journey from Boston. It didn’t help matters that I booked a room, described as a " humble, but clean " converted carriage stall, at the Shiretown Inn (44 North Water Street, 508-627-8478) — purportedly a favorite watering hole of Ted Kennedy.

Still, I got off to a good start by visiting Murdick’s Fudge (21 North Water Street, 888-55-FUDGE), right down the street from the Shiretown. If I hadn’t filled up on rocky road and chocolate peanut butter, I would’ve also gone to Mad Martha’s ice-cream shop (7 North Water Street, 508-627-8761), another island institution.

After ogling Murdick’s fudge-making display, I took to the streets of Edgartown, which somehow evokes both Cape Cod and the Caribbean. Narrow passageways lined with old whaling captains’ houses are crowded with taxis and Jeeps, their drivers yielding reluctantly to heavy foot traffic. The pedestrians, perhaps overfull of fudge and seafood and overwhelmed by their proximity to the ocean, remain blissfully unaware of the commotion. Maybe their eyes are fixed on the many shop windows displaying T-shirts, seashell tchotchkes, and Lilly Pulitzer dresses, which are essential to fitting in with Vineyard style.

The wedding reception was held at the Navigator (2 Main Street, 508-627-4320), a harbor-side restaurant with a private room upstairs. The real action, though, was in the bar downstairs, where Bill Clinton reportedly stopped in sometime between cocktails and the maid of honor’s speech. I somehow felt closure to my Chappaquiddick obsession: if Bill was cool with the Vineyard, so was I.

— Kate Cohen

Stowe, Vermont

The ride up took six hours — the ride back, three. Let that be a lesson in not attempting a drive to Stowe at rush hour on a Friday afternoon in the middle of a winter storm.

Once there, we dragged ourselves into the Stowehoff Inn (434 Edson Hill Road, 800-932-7136), all fireplace warmth, candlelit glow, and sweet hospitality. A 44-room inn, Stowehoff occupies hundreds of acres of hills and offers up snowshoes, sleigh rides, and ski trails. Late at night, though, all we wanted was a pint in the pub downstairs and one of the many games stacked in a cabinet.

The next morning, we headed off to the Trapp Family Lodge (700 Trapp Hill Road, 800-826-7000), where the hills were alive — and crowded with college ski teams. Still, we got a slice of " some of the best cross-country skiing in the nation, " according to a loquacious fellow guest. Full outfitting and trail passes for two came to just over $60.

Back at the inn, an afternoon of indoor and outdoor hot-tubbing, sauna, and plush robes got us loose enough to be truly sucker-punched by some powerful margaritas down the hill at Miguel’s Stowe Away (3148 Mountain Road, 800-245-1240), a surprisingly authentic Mexican joint that apparently holds great appeal for the small-town college set. Bon appétit.

— Nina Willdorf

Ipswich, Massachusetts

Its name was Crab Med: a luxury resort built of twigs, grasses, and shells, located on the beautiful white sands of Crane Beach, in Ipswich. As its name suggests, the resort was frequented exclusively by crabs (albeit dead ones) — some of whom lolled by the club’s little swimming pool, while others sat at the outdoor bar, or strolled the spacious grounds ...

Constructing miniature holiday resorts might not be everyone’s idea of a good time — it might not even be mine — but everything about that weekend in Ipswich a few years back seems touched with a kind of magic. It was early summer — the weather perfect, the tourists not yet out in force. We rented kayaks from Ipswich Bay Ocean Kayaking (121 Jeffrey’s Neck Road, 978-356-2464) and explored the dappled salt marshes of the Ipswich River Basin. We strolled up Crane Beach (Argilla Road, 978-356-4354) to the Great House at Castle Hill (290 Argilla Road, 978-356-4351), with its rolling lawns and exquisite Italian garden. We gorged ourselves on fried clams at the famous Clam Box (206 High Street, 978-356-9707).

That night, we stayed in a little motel — nothing spectacular — called the Whittier (120 County Road, 978-356-5205), where we sipped red wine and watched trashy TV. In the morning we drove up to the humongous flea market at Todd Farm Antiques (Main Street, 978-948-2217) in Rowley, returning to our room a few hours later with arms full of worthless, priceless junk. In the afternoon we checked out the wolves at Wolf Hollow (114 Essex Road, 978-356-0216), an educational facility that nonetheless encourages visitors to howl with the animals at the end of each visit.

And then — this is the thing about weekends — it was time to turn around and go home. Before we did, though, we took one last lingering walk along Crane Beach, which was when we established the world’s only holiday hangout for dead crabs. It was a lovely resort. I don’t think Donald Trump could have been any more proud.

— Chris Wright

New York City, New York

I enjoy traveling alone. There’s an element of self-discovery involved in exploring something with no other itineraries, appetites, or bladders to circumnavigate. I find it cathartic.

One such solo journey took place three summers ago. After an excruciatingly bad couple of days, I awoke at 6 a.m. on a Thursday and decided to leave a message on my boss’s voice-mail asking for a " mental-health day. " The way I intended to soothe my ailing mental health: a spontaneous one-day jaunt to New York City.

By seven o’clock, I was squished on a Peter Pan bus heading for the Port Authority. Five hours later, I found myself in Times Square with $60 and no plan. For about 10 minutes, I felt perfectly awake, vibrant, and happy. Then the downpour began.

I’d been to New York City only once before, and I had nowhere to go, no friends to call, no umbrella in my backpack. Earlier in the morning, there had been something bravely romantic about hopping on a bus on the fly. But by doing so, I’d signed myself up for 10 hours of traveling and less than 12 hours of sightseeing. And now it was raining.

So after ducking into a touristy Times Square bar and sucking down two gin and tonics, I ran into a gaggle of 50 or so lipsticked teenagers waiting for the taping of MTV’s TRL on Broadway. At the time, I didn’t know who Carson Daly was (this was 1999), or that TRL was an acronym (Total Request Live), or why I was the oldest person in sight. Nonetheless, I stayed there for three hours, and ended up being the oldest televised screamer on TRL that day.

When the show’s taping ended and the skies finally cleared, I took the subway to one end of Broadway and continued walking until darkness fell. Along the way, I watched crusty old men play chess in Washington Square Park. I sat on a concrete stoop and listened to jazz musicians blow horns. I dipped wasabi in soy sauce in the Village and paid too much for a cappuccino in a coffee shop. Among other things, I saw dusty smoke shops, waxed Vespas, humongous billboards, thick pizzas, and feather boas. They all seemed blindingly beautiful, likely because their setting made them feel so unfamiliar.

Around midnight — after exchanging e-mail addresses with two tourists from Chicago in a cheesy margarita bar — I took the last bus back to Boston. Amazingly, I made it to work on time the next day. The office never seemed more alive.

— Camille Dodero

Wellfleet, Massachusetts

To begin with, it was a busman’s holiday. We were going to see five-time Tony Award–winning actress Julie Harris in a deliciously lethal Irish play at a little shack of a theater right on the water — and I didn’t even have to write about it (well, not until now). It was our first trip to Wellfleet and the Wellfleet Harbor Actors Theater (next to town pier, 508-349-3011) — which, once discovered, becomes a habit. The incomparable Harris, a Chatham resident, is honorary chair of the theater, and she was appearing, with three unknowns, in The Beauty Queen of Leenane. Not that you’d think she was special: the poster listed the cast in alphabetical order, and she wasn’t first.

The other plus: it was a cool, uncommonly sunny day at the end of May, before the heavy onslaught of tourists to the Cape. We sped down so fast we couldn’t believe it; a month or so later, the journey would become a crawl comparable to Frodo’s toward Mount Doom. So with time to snoop around, we nosed into some boutiques and galleries.

Lunch was just opposite the theater, at a funky place called the BookStore & Restaurant (50 Kendrick Avenue, 508-349-3154). Yes, there is a bookstore; it’s in the back. The seafood is good, there’s a pouilly-fuissé by the glass, and you can drink in the sun, too, if you eat on the upper deck. If you’re in the mood to stay overnight, the Inn at Duck Creek (70 Main Street, 508-349-9333) is a charming, reasonably priced option dating from the early 1800s. There’s a tavern next door that features late-night jazz on the weekend, if you don’t feel like going back to your room and soaking up the quaintness or sitting in the parlor reading the New York Times.

— Carolyn Clay

Newport, Rhode Island

In the wake of the exhausting 2000 election — but while the Florida wrangling was still going on — we drove an hour and a half down to Newport. After arriving at the Mill Street Inn (75 Mill Street, 800-392-1316), an aptly named refurbished old mill in the heart of town, the trip exceeded expectations. Our room boasted exposed brick, wooden beams, and comfortable accommodations — all at an affordable price. From here, we were able to explore the small coastal community: the waterfront, the historic Touro Synagogue (85 Touro Street, 401-847-4794), the first such place in North America with a letter from President George Washington proclaiming religious freedom in our country, and, of course, the mansions.

The summer palaces of 19th-century robber barons (mostly the Vanderbilts) made for a welcome respite after a brisk morning spent surveying the ocean-side Cliff Walk. Dominick Dunne, whose coverage of America’s elites included the murder trial of Newport resident Claus von Bülow, would have been proud of our discovery of the community’s old money.

Two of our Newport meals, in particular, stood out. The first was a clam-chowder-and-sandwich repast at the Black Pearl (1 West Pelham Street, 401-846-5264), the gold standard for Newport seafood. The second was an elegant nouvelle cuisine dinner at Asterix & Obelix (599 Thames Street, 401-841-8833), which is housed in a renovated garage. Red wine, gently pan-grilled bass, and piano strands still linger in my memory of that night.

— Seth Gitell

Provincetown, Massachusetts

At the very end of Cape Cod, where the little spit of land begins to turn in on itself, you’ve booked yourself into an old motel called the Moors (59 Province Lands Road, 508-487-1342). Get yourself a room on the second level. Go out to Herring Cove. Take a dip, walk on the beach, read, listen to tunes on your headphones, watch the light surf, the sky, the ferries and fishing boats and sailboats crossing the not-too-distant horizon. Toward sunset, head back to the motel. Fix yourself a drink (you’ve brought citron, lemon, tonic, and a cooler — the ice is down the hall). Take it out on the balcony that overlooks the highway, salt marsh, and ocean. Sit back, put your feet up on the railing, watch the sunset, gulls, and hawks dipping and turning over the marsh, the masts of sailboats visible over the dunes as they return to harbor.

Take a walk down the quiet west end of Commercial Street until you hit the hubbub. You've put your name in for the 45-minute-to-one-hour wait at the Lobster Pot (321 Commercial Street, 508-487-0842), or you’ve got a reservation down the street at the slightly fancier Dancing Lobster Café (373 Commercial Street, 508-487-0900). It doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re going to eat lobster and probably oysters and drink one of those good Bloody Marys, served by the bartender who looks like Steve Canyon, upstairs at the Lobster Pot — a spicy Bloody Mary, but not too spicy, rimmed with celery salt. If there’s a wait, you hit the little bookstore in the center of town, browse, maybe buy some book you forgot to pack. After dinner, back at the motel, you drift off, reading the book. Wake before 10. Repeat.

— Jon Garelick