Maastricht's madness may be passing, but it shouldn't be missed, Joe Dodgshun writes.
Deep in an ornately decorated city hall chamber, a long-anticipated exchange is eagerly watched.
One man is the mayor.
His counterpart, a prince, is clad in gold and crimson-banded finery, a regal fool's hat, and a ruff around his neck not much wider than his mischievous smile.
With a knowing gleam in his eyes, the prince pounces on the opportunity to assert himself, in the Limburgish dialect.
This is the one week of the year in which he can, and the mayor duly hands this Prince of Fools the key to the medieval city of Maastricht.
It is a symbolic reversal of power that ushers in a period of temporary insanity.
For the next half a week Maastricht will become Mestreech, the prince and his band of Tempeleers are handed the reins and the entire region will live and breathe one thing only: Carnival, or hereabouts, ''Vastelaovend''.
Outside, under frigid February skies, the transformation has begun to spread to the city's narrow streets.
People start disappearing under disguises extravagant, controversial and downright inexplicable.
A man dressed as a grandmother tenderly rocks his bumblebee baby to sleep on his shoulder, flanked by a clan of cavemen.
So far, the costumed are mainly visitors to this southernmost Dutch city - the locals know better.
The official time for disguised shenanigans is still one day away, so they instead crowd into cafes that echo with relentless carnival music (best, or perhaps only, enjoyed when tipsy), waiting for the real beginning of Vastelaovend.
Sunday, Vrijthof Square, midday.
Years ago, the people crowding the space in front of the impressive Romanesque Cathedral of St Servatius would have been pilgrims journeying to pray at the tomb of the saint.
Today, they are a riot of colour, a rabble of double-takes shouting the carnival greeting, ''Alaaf!''.
Smoke drifts over the restless crowd as the 11th shot fired from the ceremonial Momus Cannon and the hoisting of the papier-mache Mooswief (market woman) incites happy chaos.
Carnival has begun.
While better-known carnivals march on in Venice, Rio de Janeiro and New Orleans, less famous but no less fervent festivities sweep cities of Catholic heritage all over the southern Netherlands and western Germany.
Protestant cities above the Rhine (where some call it ''Paapse stoutigheden'', or ''Papal naughtiness'') have fewer celebrations, but the central Brabant province also celebrates with gusto and large amounts of beer.
But Maastricht, the capital of the province of Limburg, which dips below The Netherlands, bordered by Germany and Belgium, has gained the reputation as the faux-fur adorned, glittering costume-jewel of this typically Dutch tradition.
Disguises in this river-straddled city are by reputation the country's best, many intricate creations inspired by Venetian masquerade outfits, trimmed with healthy handfuls of Dutch madness.
Some take the entire year to create or evolve with new additions every carnival.
Vasteloavend combines elements of Roman fertility rituals and Germanic-Celtic pagan celebrations, thanks to the Catholic Church, which attempted to replace these with Christian customs.
The result was a fusion with its unruly pre-Lent ''feast of fools''.
Many traditions around this time of hierarchical reversal and satire are thanks to the Tempeleers, who are the ''organisers'' who also choose the unwitting ''Prins Carnaval'' four weeks before he emerges in the Saturday arrival parade, literally covered in thrown confetti.
After his arrival, ''Zate Hermenikes'' (drunk marching bands) send up a merry call-to-arms as they carouse from bar to bar, filling the city with music performed with entertaining nonchalance.
As you soak up the atmosphere, you realise the forward and rear sections of the band that just passed were playing entirely different songs.
After the Mooswief is hoisted, the Zate Hermenikes and hordes of other disguised Maastrichters mass at Maastricht Train Station.
So begins the Grand Carnival Parade (the ''Boonte Storrem'' in the local dialect); a procession of dancing, marching and drinking, complete with parade floats of often perplexing themes, all of which seem to function also as beer carts.
As you make your way over the grand waters of the Maas River on the arched St Servatius Bridge and through the thronging, cobbled streets, it is easy to pick that sobriety is not a key aspect of the carnival.
It is a street party through and through at which freezing temperatures are often joined by snow and rain, so alcohol is continually consumed by all to maintain the mood.
Heading into a bar to warm up?
You will most likely be shouted rounds of beer by incredibly hospitable strangers and effortlessly pick up dozens of new friends.
If you can bring yourself to stop celebrating for a moment's attempted reflection, you might notice something about the people around you.
Underneath the costumes you'll find an entire cross-section of society - families, old-timers, the handicapped, executives, the working class, foreigners, locals - everyone joined for a short while in carefree celebration.
The Prince of Fools leads this flock from his arrival, right through until the carnival's sorrowful closing moments.
If you miss his reprise in the grand parade, there is still the children's carnival parade on the Monday, the excuse to gorge on pancakes on Fat Tuesday, and a lighted night-parade in nearby Valkenburg - Falcon Castle - before the prince lowers the Mooswief to close festivities just before midnight on the third day.
And so ends a season launched every year on the 11th of the 11th, when people start to prepare costumes, materials and floats for the parades.
It is common for southerners to take the week of the carnival off as stores close and almost everyone drops everything to party and, eventually, recover (Maastrichters are generally in no fit form to work come the carnival's close).
Put aside the drinking, fancy dress and non-stop, cheesy brass music, and you will find the carnival is spiritually an important time of year for many Dutch and especially the people of Limburg.
People who have grown up there, no matter how far away they now live, strive to make it home for this intoxicating mix of heritage and festive spirit and can't bear to spend it anywhere else.
As one returning Maastrichter describes it, ''Carnival is in the blood'' for those born in the province.
It's akin to Christmas, a time for people to return to their roots and talk in their own native Limburgish dialect.
Despite this, any visitors willing to embrace the spirit and don a disguise are welcomed with open arms.
If you go
Maastricht Carnival officially begins every year on the Sunday before Lent, but city celebrations typically start days beforehand, so for the full experience it pays to arrive early.
For more information, visit www.holland.com and closer to the time, www.vvvmaastricht.eu.
The 2014 carnival runs from March 2-4.
