I can’t take it. The walls are closing in. Downtown buildings loom like jailers over tiny, fragile inmates. The streets are narrow and crowded with the same people doing the same old things.

November in Lewiston, it’s dismal. It’s a disgusting landscape with no green in it. Denizens wearing massive jackets and dirty gloves just can’t stop talking about the weather. Is it cold enough for ya? Isn’t that wind just evil?

Cars and trucks blow blue smoke and prepare to be caked with road salt soon. The people driving them are cold and grouchy. Store windows are dark and the river looks black.

Nothing gleams in November.

I’ve gotta get outta here. I’m dreaming of palm trees and hot sand. I’m picturing long afternoons in a hammock next to the pounding Pacific surf. I envision the beach at night with a cool moon overhead.

Time and money are short though, so I have to refine my getaway plans. Instead of Acapulco, I’ll set my sights on something more local. It’s all good. Changing perspectives is what it’s all about.

OK, after a review of the bank account and the schedule, I see time and money are very short indeed. I’ll have to revise the plan even further. Mark my word, though. I will get out of Lewiston.

Mulling an itinerary

Even if I only get as far as:

• Sabattus. No palm trees that I can see. But hey! I’m out of Lewiston for a while and there’s plenty to be said for Sabattus. Like Uncle Moe’s Diner. Love Uncle Moe’s. They don’t serve sissy little lattes, they serve coffee. Waitresses don’t come over and gaily announce who they are and how happy they are to be your server. They ask what you want to eat and then go get it. Uncle Moe’s will be my first stop on the big vacation.

I have a friend who lives near a beach in Sabattus, allegedly. The guy keeps giving me directions and I keep trying to find his estate. So far, no luck. I suspect he lives in his car but is too proud to admit it.

• Lisbon. Do I have to tell you my favorite part of Lisbon? I’ll give you a hint: It’s a big cluster of buildings and it rhymes with “Torumbo.”

I love Worumbo Mill. I don’t care if they secretly house aliens there or not. That place is creepy on any given day. My wife likes to go to the outlet store and shop for stuff made of fabric. I like to go and imagine the old buildings are inhabited by vampires, zombies or editors. Something sinister like that. During my last trip to Worumbo, I bought a cog from the old mill. The way I figure it, if the mill itself is haunted, each piece of scrap in the place has got to be haunted by proxy. The cog sits on my desk at home. I’m waiting for it to start spinning from some unseen power in the night. I’d like to spend a night in one of the abandoned Worumbo buildings sometime. Just me and the rats. Now that would be a vacation.

Greene. I almost never stop in Greene but I like driving through it. There are some stretches out there that are completely desolate. You know what I like about completely desolate areas? Your chances of spotting a UFO increase dramatically. If I ever see a UFO around here, I’ll bet it happens in Greene. Of course, when I try to report the sighting to proper authorities, I’ll never be able to describe where I saw the craft. That’s another thing about Greene: I get lost there all the time.

Minot. One of our editors lives in Minot. He says the sites to see out there are the motocross track and the big plow at the town office. I have no idea what he’s talking about. This is a guy who keeps bees at home. An obvious loon.

Mechanic Falls. One of my old bosses lives in Mechanic Falls. When I was single, his wife used to take pity on me and invite me to supper once in a while. Guess I gotta say free grub is my favorite part of that town. Also, the fact that it used to be called “Bog Hoot.”

There’s also Turner, Poland and Hebron to consider. Problem is, I never know which town I’m in when I drive out there. One road brings you from one to another and then back again. It’s like a carnival funhouse out on those back roads. I have to call someone and describe the scenery to find out where I am. And anyway, it’s quiet. Too quiet. I get to missing Lewiston after a while. Because let’s face it: It may be brown and dismal. But at least I know where I am.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. Visit his blog at www.sunjournal.com.