Does Holland grow more tulips than roses?  Do Dutchmen really wear clogs?   Does asparagus come in colors?  Does anyone speak Belgian?
Discovering the answers to these questions -- while on location -- was a Dutch Treat.  Since it was also the blooming season of springtime at Amsterdam, Brussels, and the North Sea, it became a royal Dutch Treat.
Why is Holland especially noted for windmills?  Did the little boy pull his finger out of the hole in the dyke?  What happened to the Zuiderzee?
Windmills are still whirling as I recall and relive these April, 2004, days between Easter Sunday and Gazette Deadline, when Allan and I took off like kites cut loose over the North Sea.  I now reclaim these days in print, hoping they might also be a Dutch Treat for you. 
As is customary, my spouse and I do very little if any pre-planning for our various jaunts and journeys.  Prior to departure for Amsterdam, for example, we arranged for only the first three nights at a Bed & Breakfast that was advertised on the internet.  It is located at Falaen, a tiny village in the southern countryside of Belgium near France.
With the assistance of National Car Rental, we left the Amsterdam airport with a map and a mission, arriving three hours later at Falaen.  The gray-stoned grouping of medieval buildings in this village lay only a few kilometers from the French border and not much further from Luxembourg.  We've never seen anything so ancient or historical in the United States of America.
But I'm getting ahead of myself here! 
In looking over the photos and notes upon our return last week, I found our trip falls neatly into five categories.  Some of you may be interested in all of them.  Some of you may want to escape one or two of the reels.  And some of you may want to put this paper down immediately and go out to plant your peas.
In any case, you are hereby fore-warned that the trip was marvelous and I've got details written in the margins of my mind -- as well as answers to all of the above questions -- just for those who keep on reading.

As I opened the car door I heard the squawking of two large geese down by the pond who acted as though they owned the place.  Across the street were grazing cows that were also not afraid of us.  The house was big and square and made of gray stone, much like the hue and hone of other buildings in this village and others all along the way to this southern point of Belgium.
Slabs of masonry steps led us up to a side door.  Because the steps were steep and entirely open on one side, all the way down to the cobblestone drive below, my stomach did a little flip.
"We've been waiting for you!  Come in!" said a young and pleasant voice.  We learned that the home has belonged to Peter and Jessica for only four months, yet here they were opening it up to complete strangers from America.
But we weren't complete strangers, since Allan had corresponded via the internet reservations.   Jessica spoke perfect English, a pivoting point for us in choosing the place.  Her parents live in Virginia; her father worked in the diplomatic corps.  Husband Peter grew up in Brussels.  They are an artsy couple that produce and direct documentaries, including for PBS, and together they speak many languages.
Peter only speaks Dutch to their daughter Lenka, who is 13 months old, roughly the same age as our little Miss Adeline.  Jessica only speaks English to the child, and the daycare lady only speaks French.  Lenka will be multi-lingual before age three.
Jessica showed us the home, built in 1856 as a boarding house for girls.  "It's all yours," she said as we strolled the castle-like quarters.  Allan and I never used the behemoth fireplace nor watched the television nor any of their films, but we fancied our more secluded space upstairs where I just had to take a picture of the square toilet.  Views of the village from our windows assured us we were private but not alone.
Across the street, next to the cows, was a living working farm with a barn built in 1670, hence the previous use of the word medieval.  For the next three days we had much to explore, and each morning after breakfast, explore we did. 
We found Belgian lace curtains and valences in all the windows, very narrow cobblestone streets, and zero-lot lines.  If people step out of their front doors with-out looking both ways first, they could easily be maimed or killed.
By the way, it was Peter who made and served our breakfast each day as Jessica cared for Lenka.  We looked forward to the traditional European breads, cold cuts, cheeses and freshly squeezed orange juice.  One morning we were treated to a dollop of caviar on our peeled and halved hardboiled eggs.  Mmmm.  Thank you, Peter.
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