My wife, Tammy, and I are enjoying margaritas at dusk on the second-story deck of the Half Shell, a seafood joint out on South Eastern Avenue. The temperature hovers around 70 and a gentle breeze caresses our skin. The last of the sun disappears behind the mountains to the west. If I squint real hard, I can pretend I see the ocean.

We’ve been sitting on a lot of patios lately. Sammy’s Woodfire Pizza, Lucille’s BBQ, Tommy Bahamas at the new Town Square (I want to live at Tommy Bahamas, but that’s a subject for another column). It’s springtime, and we’re savoring every minute of it.

In Las Vegas (only tourists call it “Vegas”) the first day of spring is often the last day of spring. One day it’s a comfortable 75, the next it’s triple digits. No time to adjust, just the prospect of four months of hell staring you down like a UFC champion.

But this year is different. For the first time in recent memory, we’ve had a real spring, just like other parts of the country. Each morning when I pick up the paper, I expect to get pummeled with that first blast of summer. Day after day, I get a reprieve. That’s part of the appeal, I guess: knowing that it could end at the drop of a big floppy hat. Really keeps you in the moment. A metaphor for life, maybe?

Of course, along with spring comes something else we haven’t experienced in a long time. Spring fever: that free-floating bittersweet restlessness that makes you want to go out and chase the ice cream truck. I’ve got it bad; my wife has it worse. Every weekend she says, “Let’s just get in the car and drive.”

Here’s the problem (besides the price of gas): If you haven’t noticed, Las Vegas is a virtual island in the desert. To get anywhere worth going to, you have to drive really far. Too far for a weekend getaway.

What about closer destinations? Well, Red Rock is nice but we’ve done it dozens of times. Same with Mount Charleston. Lake Mead? Not a real lake. Plus, it’s evaporating by the minute. St. George is OK if you golf (which we don’t). Sedona is beautiful but that’s pushing the two-day envelope and it’s crawling with tourists. Anyplace else requires a long trek through the Mojave with nothing but the Nevada Highway Patrol for company. And those guys are terrible conversationalists.

If we could push a button and magically find ourselves barreling down Pacific Coast Highway, that might take the edge off. Especially in a vintage Mustang with Creedence Clearwater Revival blaring on 93-KHJ and the wind blowing through our hair. (Note: Neither 93-KHJ nor my hair have existed for years.)

Maybe I’ve hit on something here. I have a feeling that spring fever isn’t about a physical place or even a seasonal change. It’s more about a time and a state of mind. For me, the time is 1969 and the state of mind is Southern California, back when it was golden (and, coincidentally, so was I). But because my Back to the Future-style DeLorean is still in the shop, I probably won’t be returning anytime soon.

In the meantime, my wife has informed me she’s packing a picnic lunch. I have no idea where we’re going. But one thing’s for sure: I’m bringing the Creedence.