By Norma Meyer

Whack me with a wooden clog to see if I'm dreaming because I got swallowed up by the most massive rainbow-radiant tulip gardens on the globe. I also met a world-prominent peeing boy who boasts more costumes than a Hollywood star and biked in exhilaration past the largest concentration of fabled Dutch windmills - after savoring a chocolate severed hand.

I figured on a floral frenzy during my weeklong AmaWaterways' "Tulip Time" river cruise through the Netherlands and Belgium. But quirky history also bloomed along swan-graced canal-woven cobblestoned streets. Every time I returned to my indulgent floating hotel, the river vessel AmaCerto, I appreciatively plucked a wet iced washcloth from a greeter's silver pinchers held aloft and let it — and the swirl of sightseeing — sink in.

Since Holland is synonymous with tulips, the cruise headliner is a whopping 7 million brilliant blossoming bulbs standing tall beside winding paths on 79-acre Keukenhof Gardens, just outside Amsterdam. Open only mid-March to mid-May, this is perennial pandemonium. You'll be thigh-high in 800 tulip varieties, plus perky daffodils, hyacinths and narcissus dancing in ribbons of Crayola colors and fringed, streaked, striped, boldly solid and seemingly smiling at you. It's like some botanical planet of puny petaled people. (Talk about horticulture hysteria: An exhibit describes Holland's "Tulip Mania" in the 1630s, when rich traders paid as much for one rare tulip as a three-story house.)

The spirited springtime cruise begins and ends in offbeat go-with-the-flow Amsterdam. Only here can you find all these: a cat museum, purse museum, houseboat museum and red-light district where hookers strut their goods in cubbyhole windows. During a brisk walking tour, we dodged cyclists (the 820,000 residents own 880,000 bikes) en route to the 1862-founded tulip-centric floating flower market; paused to glide in a small boat down enchanting cafe-lined UNESCO-listed 17th-century canals, and angled past long-tolerated "coffee shops" selling pot-laced "space cake" vanilla muffins and chocolate brownies.

"You go to a coffee shop and become the Flying Dutchman," our guide quipped.

We smoothly sailed (without the help of a space cake) every day on the stylish 164-passenger AmaCerto, lulled by luscious onboard cuisine and piano man Gino tinkling on the ivories in the airy lounge. Busy twice-daily land excursions were included in the price, and once we docked at our 12 stopovers, local tour guides unleashed the legends and lore.

In Belgium's medieval city of Antwerp, we lingered on the Scheldt River bank under a sneering statue of mythical giant Antigoon, where he demanded tolls from ships. If his victims refused, he cut off one of their hands and threw it into the river. Amputations stopped when young warrior Brabo did the giant in with the same grisly M.O. We paid homage at an elaborate fountain monument of appendage-flinging Brabo outside the 16th-century ornamental City Hall.

Antwerp (the name means "hand throw" in Flemish) had the best finger food. Shops sell the specialty, handjes, which are yummy cookies and chocolates shaped like severed hands. To keep the theme, pop into 't Parlement beer bar for an Antigoon pale ale, its logo the grimacing giant with crimson blood gushing from his handless arm stump. (You'll also find a good selection in beer mecca — Belgium's 1,000 or so brews, all which impressively have their own designed glass.)

Later in Belgium's capital, Brussels, we faced a cheekier world-renowned landmark — Manneken Pis, a 2-foot-tall 400-year-old bronzed cherubic naked boy urinating into a fountain basin. Our guide scoffed at the theory he represented a toddler putting out a burning explosive in 1142 to save the city.

"The poor people put him up centuries ago to annoy the rich people. He was supposed to be peeing into their drinking water."

Although Manneken Pis often goes au naturel, he has a government-hired stylist-dresser and more than 800 wardrobe changes. He's morphed into Nelson Mandela and Dracula. He's worn traditional garb of an African farmer while pissing milk to mark World Milk Day. (When we were there, he was accoutered in sensible full-length yellow and green frock to honor an arts festival.) Around Brussels' splendorous UNESCO-esteemed Grand Place — touted as Europe's most gorgeous square — visitors washed down classic strawberry-and-whip-cream-topped Belgian waffles with Manneken Pis-label beer. Pis-proud shops peddled him as bottle openers, chocolates, coin purses and other souvenirs.

Our own pants were charmed off in Ghent and Bruges, two canal-laced Belgian medieval towns. In Ghent, we hung out in the haunting courtyard where witches were burned at the stake, stared up at the imposing 1180-built Castle of the Counts and gazed at "Mad Meg" (or Dulle Griet), a red 15th-century monstrous cannon named for a folkloric insane peasant. (As for crazy, at nearby Dulle Griet pub you'll drink in one stocking foot because patrons must surrender a shoe as insurance they won't rip off the glass.)

In "Venice of the North" Bruges, age-old brick, gilded and gabled buildings seemed to bob on swan-sprinkled canals. The ancient Basilica of the Holy Blood showcased purported drops of Christ's blood while confectioners sold Belgium's internationally famed mouthwatering chocolates in creative forms — boobs, owls, soccer cleats, to mention only a few. I bit into a pair of chocolate pliers.

Back in Holland, we watched a sawdusty cobbler turn a log into a wood clog at Zaanse Schans, a scenic re-created 18th-century village dotted with historic windmills, including one I steeply climbed to an outdoor rickety platform where my heart thumped as the powerful sails "thump-thumped" by. But for windmill wows, nothing beat biking in Kinderdijk, a UNESCO World Heritage gem scattered with 19 rustic windmills dating from the 1500s and billed as the biggest collection of its kind.

With three shipmates, I excitedly wobbled off on a complimentary cycle (major mistake gorging at the 25-topping onboard ice cream party first). We gloriously pedaled against forceful headwinds, then rain, along a countryside canal bordered by fields of yellow rapeseed, swaying pond reeds and iconic working Dutch windmills that for centuries have pumped excess water from the land. If it felt like a storybook setting, it was — the children's fable "The Cat and the Cradle" took place in Kinderdijk during the floods of 1421, when a heroic kitty jumped back and forth on a floating cradle to keep it balanced, saving the sleeping baby inside.

WHEN YOU GO:

For information about AmaWaterways' "Tulip Time" and other cruises, visit www.amawaterways.com or call 800-626-0126.

. Kinderdijk, a UNESCO World Heritage Site in the Netherlands, boasts 19 authentic Dutch windmills, the largest collection of its kind. Photo courtesy of Norma Meyer.

Urinating Brussels icon Manneken Pis goes naked when not donning special costumes, like this one for a local arts festival. Photo courtesy of Norma Meyer.

Norma Meyer is a freelance writer. To read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.