Ah, France. Country of wine, cheese and mystery.

We rented a car to travel to Alsace in May, home of one branch of Jack's ancestors and various white wines. Having personally never learned to drive a manual, Jack had to take this on himself with me navigating. Not exactly a fair division of labor, but navigating is not as easy as you might think, since the route numbers are rarely shown on street signs and you have to guess which upcoming cities they will refer to at each roundabout. Really keeps you on your toes.

So we made our way out of the city using a wonderfully detailed hand-drawn map from one of Jack's coworkers. And then we started flying on the 411. It seems that they only tell you the speed limits (a) when it changes or (b) when you enter a new country, so we were just trying to keep pace with the slower lot of cars. It still seems pretty fast, though, when the speedometer says 120.

After getting the hang of the big road I attempted to take us on some of the smaller byways that paralleled the highway so we could take in some local color. Every single turn was wrong. Every single one. I kept reviewing the map, taking in landmarks such as towns and railroad tracks, and thinking I knew where we were, and then, surprise! We'd end up somewhere else. We drove through the lovely beer town of Ciney, though, so it made it sort of worth it. The second time through the main part of town wasn't nearly as nice, however. A little too reminiscent of "National Lampoon's European Vacation": "Look, Jack, the church from the Ciney label!" So we followed the signs back to the motorway and stuck with that as long as we could.

Everyone told us to buy gas in Luxembourg because it was cheap there, so we did. Keep in mind that we were driving a VW Polo, about the equivalent of a Golf, not a Hummer. The tank was a little less than half full at that point, and it cost us...€33! [That's approximately $44 for those of you watching at home.] These Europeans have no clue what cheap gas is.

When we breezed past the French border, I was able to switch to the higher-quality map I had of the region (shout out to Michelin!), which made getting to Wissembourg an uneventful affair once we left the main road. Our French teacher told us that in France you either had toll roads or speed traps, so they get money out of you one way or another (at least I think that's what she was saying). At one point on the highway we saw two cops pointing a radar gun at traffic while sitting placidly on an overpass.

We cruised into Wissembourg on late Friday afternoon on the first day of their Pentecost festival. We didn't get into our first choice hotel, but it turns out that the place we reserved was right across the street and, unlike the original place, had an unobscured view of the main square in town, perfect for viewing the festivities.

Wissembourg is a small town surrounded by major fortifications in the terms of ramparts, a moat on the north side, and a river to the south. It is adjacent to the German border, and, while tiny, still bigger than most of the towns in the vicinity. The ousted king of Poland, Stanislas, whose daughter would later become the queen of France, spent some time there. Alsace changed hands several times, yielding a distinctive Germanic dialect and a heavy, pork-based cuisine.

We wandered around the streets for a while taking in the Alsatian charm of the half-timbered houses painted in a variety of soothing colors. The River Lauter branches off in several directions as it reaches the town, giving it the appearance of a mini, non-navigable Venice, and offering plenty of pretty views. We stopped for a beer in the shadow of the Maison du Sel, constructed in the 15th century and sporting such a wavy roofline that it's amazing the whole thing hasn't collapsed in on itself. It was there that we first saw a chef, cooking outdoors, slather a flat bread with what appeared to be a creamy white cheese, top it with onions and ham (of course), and pop it in a wood-fired oven for a few minutes. We had discovered the pizza of the region: flammenkuchen or tarte flambee. But it wasn't yet dinner time, so we wandered around some more.

Our ramble took us past the Catholic church in town, featuring sandstone construction in a soft pink. We marveled at the astounding variety of graffiti etched in the walls, dating from the 1700s onwards. Then we were ready to eat. Having earlier perused the menu at our hotel and finding it satisfactory, we decided to eat there. We grabbed a sidewalk table and enjoyed the oncoming coolness of evening. I got the in-season specialty meal of white asparagus. The first course, creamy asparagus soup, was heavenly. Then, a giant plateful of asparagus with three sauces. All the sauces were okay, but not very interesting. I was pretty content just eating the spears plain. Although I would have guessed it would be a vegetarian option, it came with a side of cured meats. Jack had the choucroute garnie, one of the few Alsatian dishes to gain a reputation outside of the area: sauerkraut with assorted meats. There were a few sausages, a few pieces of pork, and a giant heap of sauerkraut. All good. We washed it all down with a local beer (in addition to wine, Alsace makes much of the French beer).

As night fell, the town seemed to become overrun with teens. They were all heading towards the fair, a feast of glowing lights, cheap toys and bored carnies. We checked out the scene, but after a long day of driving and other excitement, it was time to hit the hay. The fact that our only window opened up onto the square didn't always make for ideal sleeping conditions, but the location made up for it in other ways.