It started with a simple bet shortly after I became a widow left with nine children to raise. Leafing through a National Geographic, losing myself in the world of possibilities, I'd often comment, 'Maybe someday we'll visit there.' (Fill in the blank: Holland, Ireland, France, Austria, whatever the magazine was serving up as country du jour in any edition. I wasn't fussy.) Fields of tulips with a windmill in the background whispered Holland was calling, men and boys bedecked in lederhosen and Tyrolean hats were equally fascinating. Anne, sixteen, threw down the gauntlet with, 'We'll never go to Europe. You just talk about it whenever you read an article about it.' 'Want to bet?' I challenged. We agreed on five dollars to be paid to me on the plane as soon as we were airborne. The rest, as they say, is history. As we wended our way merrily through most of the trip, I exulted in having won the bet, but on other occasions, such as going over the Alps by mistake, I wished I had let her win the five bucks.