With the taste of last night's blonde still on my lips, I consider lingering at the Achel monastery—one can stay a week here for just $40 a night, if he agrees to "live some days on the monk's rhythm" and "stay in the stillness." The Trappists spring from the strict Cistercian line of monks out of La Trappe in France, and as such cherish quiet—silence even—as a way of life. As inviting as it sounds, stillness is not an option today, since I will stop at three of the six Trappist monasteries, covering a sizable chunk of the country. I love engaging the start button (actual keys are so 2001), and I really love transforming the coupe into a cabriolet, getting close to the world via a convertible top, also at a button's push. I head south.

Navigating Belgian suburbia between Achel and the superhighway to the east is is quite a tangle. Neerpelt, Overpelt, Peer, and Opglabbeek are links in a diabolical chain of tiny towns, each suffering from inadequate signage, cul-de-sac traps, and an infuriating sameness that has me backtracking, driving in triangles, and wondering if it wouldn't have been better to have stayed in the stillness with the Achel monks after all.

Eventually I cross the Maas River on the eastern border, briefly enter the Netherlands, and pick up the A2 heading south. In a split second, meandering suburbanites are replaced by a stream of cosmopolitan Europeans dismissing the speed limit with studied indifference, and at last I can do what I've been itching to do since I rented the Mégane: shift into fifth gear. A guidebook warned me that Belgium has "the worst drivers in Europe," a superlative which assures me that I'll fit right in. Complicating matters is the voorrang van rechts law ("give way to the right"), whereby traffic comes bolting out from side streets, with primacy over the vehicles already on the main road. Belgium and Luxembourg are the last holdouts in Europe to perpetuate this lunacy.

Maastricht and Liège are quick blurs along the E25, after which there is little suburban sprawl as I know it. The landscape is mostly verdant farms: horses, cows, and sheep grazing between fat rolls of baled hay. Having the top down truly puts this atmosphere in your face. You'd think that would be a bad thing in a country redolent of manure, but it's not at all. Even on the superhighway and in more developed areas, the pungent, earthy scents of farmland are the dominant aromas. For someone who usually inhales the fetid air of the city, these bucolic bouquets are nothing less than refreshing.

Within a couple of hours, I'm deep into the Ardennes Forest. On the lesser roads, I'm obliged to drop back to 50 or 55 miles per hour, but with the wind in my face… well, I now fully understand the attraction of convertibles and motorcycles—not to mention why dogs shove their heads out car windows. It's exhilarating! So what if I end up with a bad hair day worthy of Don King?