Sinking into a leather club chair, I'm offered champagne. Two of the four tall crackled-celadon vases cast up sprays of flawless white orchids. Wide window casings expose the depth of the aged walls. Pure-white translucent silk covers the windows.

A luxuriously-disheveled man sweeps in, ankle-length coat flying. Soon, slipping between silken sheets, I'll be too far gone to ever turn back.

All my life, my beloved London has been first. I'd stop there to catch a play and a breath before plunging into Europe. Now, I fear this small inn, spawned by the above Piet and Janneke Schoenmaker has changed a lifetime of devotion and affection. In just over an hour, I have been lifted from the steerage of an overseas flight in coach to this first class sanctum sanctorum on the River Spaarne. Expeditiously, Amsterdam is just 15 minutes by train with connections to Paris, Prague or Marrakesh.

Arriving so quickly, the surprised Janneke was still in the shower. Actually, I'd botched it and arrived a day early but the way-cool Schoenmakers never missed a beat. Here's Spaarne 8's creation story:

Piet and Janneke were simplifying, or so they thought, winding down from child raising, large houses and high-powered advertising careers. The plan was to rehab the upper floors of this 1765 historically-listed property. They would live on the second floor and leave the third floor for their twenty-something son, whom Piet refers to simply as "the heir."

The Shoemakers unearthed this truth: simplifying with a 1765 house is an oxymoron. The foundation was punk. Not, I suppose, an unusual problem in a country which sits in the ocean. The Teller Museum next door owned the first floor, but having no funds to shore up the foundation, they suggested Piet and Jannake buy it. Just then Piet happened upon an article about American inns and their keepers. Their fate (and mine) was sealed.

Years of international travel left the Schoenmakers with a plethora of ideas, prejudices and gripes. They put them all to use, perfecting each detail, in this first floor retreat with room for only two couples. Piet and Janneke are sophisticated, interesting and fun and have captured just those qualities in their Inn. Spaarne 8 beguiles. It is as stylish and luxurious as it is relaxed and fun.

Janneke has an artist's eye and her collections give Spaarne 8 its soul. The rich, subtle earth-colors of her abstract artworks hang on high white walls. African masks and dugout canoe paddles play off antique cabinetry and a marble top table. The seating is cushy; covered with leather, linen and ultra suede. Light scatters from the crystal chandelier and crystal vintage port decanters onto the wide-planked hardwood floors, worn-smooth from years of use in French railway cars. Ancient mortar clings to the exposed rose-colored bricks. "Don't let's get too serious," says the 1930's Amstel Hotel bellhop's cap sitting among the Hajenius cigars and opera glasses.

In my boudoir a courtly, mirrored armoire and piecrust side tables are juxtaposed to chairs of twined sea grass, doors of exposed grain and a large brooding mask from New Guinea. A music stand, a Schuco model convertible and a splendiferous 20's Murano grape-bunch chandelier weave wit into the décor. One wall, all windows and doors, opens onto a secluded garden. Here, the burled trunk of Haarlem's oldest tree and the black-green ivy on time-worn brick walls set the stage for a sleek reflecting pool and the simple lines of Philippe Stark furniture. Lavender and honeysuckle scent the air, the odd Doric column stands about, and plum and guacamole colored tulip leaves sprout from mossy flowerpots.

Bedding down at Spaarne 8 is a sybaritic occasion--even alone. Slipping between silken sheets of prime Egyptian cotton from Belgium's Olivier Strelli, I sink into billowy pillows of down. I'm sorry, London, but I'd still be fighting traffic if I had come to you.

Thus ensconced in luxury's lap, I listen to birds harmonize with church bells. I could view a video or catch the precise timbre of a diva's voice on the PiedPiper loudspeakers. The turndown fairy bequeaths me wickedly-rich Leonidas chocolates.

Candles, four feet tall, illuminate the titanic tub at the heart of the bathing chamber. Two black and white marble sinks with grand gilt mirrors face each other. A separate shower inspires choruses of "Singing in the Rain" with its dinner-plate-sized showerhead.

A 24-hour mini drugstore exists under one of the sinks, full of those items so annoying to forget--aspirin, shoe shine, shaving and feminine hygiene paraphernalia.

Spaarne 8 is the only place I have ever stayed to noticeably improve my complexion. Lest you think I've surrendered to purple prose, consider this: the Molton Brown (who else?) amenity collection includes gentle exfoliating toner, daytime facial moisturizer and overnight repair cream along with delectable bath oil, body lotion and such.

I exorcised the last of my jet lag by dumping the bath oil into that fabulous tub and then soaking until I looked like the inside of a Chinese cabbage. Cleverly, I replaced the beefy bath sheets on the towel heater with the terrycloth robe so I could wrap up and quietly chill out in the garden.

Now, if I could just order up some food, my life would be complete--but hey, the Schoenmakers are simplifying, remember? But, don't for a minute think they would overlook the possibility one might be a bit dry or peckish. An entire pantry has been stocked with delectables to nibble and imbibe. The refrigerator holds waters-plain and fizzy, soft drinks, beer, fruits and other morsels with Ben and Jerry's Fudge Brownie ice cream in the freezer--yes! Wonderful breads, crackers, cheeses and jams are in the cupboard.

The china cabinet has a complete assortment of top-shelf liquor. A Julìa Grappa Reserva perhaps? Whip up a caipirinha cocktail (or Piet will) using the Brazilian cachacha. (Don't plan to go anywhere afterwards.) Too potent? Perhaps some wine? Whites are cooling in the fridge and nice reds are on the rack. Help yourself. One of the Schoenmaker's gripes are luxury hotels with minibars and maxi-prices. Bravo! Piet and Janneke, Bravo!

Mornings find Piet wrapped in his chef's apron and padding around in bare feet to prepare breakfast: a Dutch still life you can eat--golden fresh croissants, dark pressed coffee, just-squeezed orange juice, pineapple, papaya, pink grapefruit, strawberries and ripe watermelon. Mozart plays in the background. Most civilized.

Should, after a day or two, you want to assure yourself you are indeed in Europe, wander out and explore Haarlem. Ten cobbled streets closed to traffic (cheers to Haarlem!) lead to Grote Markt square where lofty lindens shade sidewalk cafés. Dally over coffee and slip into a reverie of times past. Perhaps you will hear the music of Mozart who as a youngster shouted for joy after playing the organ in the Olde Kerk. Or you may conjure up images of young 13^th century knights jousting.

Stroll about and you will discover many small, intriguing shops. Haarlem is one of the best shopping cities in the Netherlands--there's nary a GAP in sight. Seek out the delightful hofjies (almshouses) built around small gardens which still, after hundreds of years, house those in need. Experience the joy of Frans Hal's work in the Frans Hal Museum and at the very least visit the eclectic Teller Museum, Netherlands oldest. I learned all this from the Schoenmakers' friend, Cor Asjes, who is active in Haarlem's restoration efforts. He escorted me on a fascinating walk and would do so for you as well.

Dining in Haarlem is also a distinct pleasure, from the casual pick-up meal at the organic farmers' market to the grand dine at Chapeau. Piet and Janneke, to be sure, know all the best places.

Ah, it is with regret that I will no longer start my European travels in London, but this libertine Spaarne 8 has me smitten.