As we walked down the road, which had a variety of establishments not typically associated with Alsatian charm, such as gas stations, warehouses, and large grocery stores, our eyes were relieved to light upon a stork sitting on the top of a chimney. For some reason, they have storks here. It's kind of cool, as they build giant nests up on top of precarious spots (admittedly, some with platforms that have been added to attract them), and the ma and pa take turns staying with the young-uns and venturing out for food. You can always see at least one parent in the nest, carefully tending to a batch of hatchlings.
But I digress: Altenstadt. There's not much to it, just a tiny main street with an elementary school, post office, mini grocery store and a restaurant, and many residences in the traditional style, some looking worse for wear. It seems like it hasn't changed too much since the Flicks left for America in 1830. The church that Jack's ancestors got married, St. Ulrich, seemed to be the community center as well (a woman was putting up signs for a cake sale on the gates while we were there). We entered to empty pews and the sounds of the organ rolling around us. The practicing organist seemed to be unperturbed by two people scrutinizing everything and taking a lot of pictures. In the year of Our Lord One Thousand Seven Hundred and Eighty Eight, the tenth day of the month of November, the banns having been proclaimed as is customary in my church, three times, three proximate Sundays having passed and in succession, and no impediments having been found, I the undersigned pastor in Altenstadt, in my church, at ten o'clock in the forenoon interrogated Joseph Flick, twenty-seven years old, son of Joseph Flick, a citizen of Drachenbroon, and the deceased Elizabeth Keller, therefore married, on account of residing in my parish and on account of having been born in the parish of Keffenach from where transmissorial documents have been furnished me and which are in my possession, and Anna Mary Huber, about twenty years old, daughter of Peter Huber Citizen of Altenstadt and Tenant of the community farm (Gutlouten) and of the deceased Magdalen Metzler, heretofore married in my parish: with their mutual consent given and assured on the word of those present...the bride having declared she does not know how to write, makes a sign, after this I have blessed them in accordance with the custom of Holy Mother Church.
--Translated from Latin, St. Ulrich Church records
We didn't find any Flicks in the graveyard, perhaps on account of the soft sandstone used had caused all traces of writing on some of the older markers to be worn away, perhaps because names weren't of a standard spelling back then (there were some names that were close to Flick), or perhaps everyone moved on before passing.
Joseph worked at the community farm outside of town called Gutlouthof ("good leper house," we are told, the former site of a hospital) in some respect (perhaps as a maker of textiles), where he lived with his wife Anna. He had a son, Peter George, a stonecutter, who immigrated to the US along with his brother, wife and children. The stone baptismal font in the church dated from 1755, and perhaps this is where Peter had his head dipped on a dismal February day in 1789. We picked out a respectable-looking house where we decided Peter may have plied his trade before he set sail. We hung around for a bit, daring anyone to come up and ask us why we were loitering so we could press them for information, but no one did. The organist escaped while we were behind the church looking at the graves. We walked down the remainder of the main street out of town. And just like that, we were in Germany.
A whole other country! We continued walking a handful of paces and were in Neuhof, a cluster of maybe 3 houses. We crested a small rise covered with vineyards on either side, and took in the view. On our way back down into France, Jack noticed that one of the houses had a sign up for schnapps. With a load of gumption, he went up and rang their doorbell. A large, sweaty man in a white t-shirt and suspenders answered the door, and Jack somehow communicated what he wanted, and the guy indicated we needed to go around the house to the other side. So we did. There were no schnapps in evidence. No one was around. As we were getting ready to give up, a garage door opened, and the same man appeared behind it. There was a tiny table set up surrounded by crates of liquor. He gestured for us to sit, and began speaking to us in German. Mere steps from the border, and he spoke absolutely no French. I think the only thing we managed to get across was that we were from "USA". We tasted a few of the various flavors such as cherry and plum, and they in no way resembled schnapps I'd had before--these were hard liquor (50% alcohol!) with a little fruity aroma to them, but otherwise no sweetness. This made me a bit nervous--what if we were buying some kind of product adulterated with methanol from an amateur distiller that's going to make us blind? [Turns out this is what legitimate schnapps taste like--the ones available in the US are fake. At any rate, we haven't gone blind yet.] After a couple of minutes, the wife came down. She left again and returned with a young man who spoke some English. Jack told him how he was researching his heritage in Altenstadt, and he dutifully transmitted the information, but they were merely polite rather than interested in sharing any stories. We had settled on a 4-pack of small bottles of different flavors, given that we didn't have the capacity to carry a ton of stuff with us on foot, and yet they urged more samples on us. Having not eaten lunch yet, we had to beg off lest we no longer be able to walk.
We went back into town and stopped in at the only restaurant. It was much too fancy for us, full of people celebrating special days, but it was the only game in town. A local Riesling, nicely chilled on such a warm day, went well with Jack's chicken in mushroom sauce with a side of buttery spaetzel, and my duck breast with potato gratin. The most astonishing thing about the place was the bathroom, which was done up in late-80s or early-90s decor, with lots of chunky colors and sponge-painted walls. A huge contrast to the muted interior of the rest of the place.
As we lingered over coffees and sweets, Jack asked our waitress about the community farm Gutlouthof. Had she heard of it? Yes! She had an uncle who worked there. It was damaged beyond repair in "the war" and then razed. No traces of it remained. It had been about 2 km south of town on the main road, she said. This corresponded well with the information we had from another source about the location. So that was something.
We walked around town a bit more, saw two girls washing a pony in the street like it was a car, and then headed back in the direction of Wissembourg via a bike path that followed the Lauter into town. We went back to our hotel room to digest our food and experiences, and listened while a band played on the traffic island on the street below. When they completed their set, they hopped on the mini-train to take their tunes to the rest of the town. 
After our rest we went out exploring again. We visited the interior of the church, which featured a giant painting of a saint on one wall. Having checked that off the list, we re-entered the main square to find traditional dancing occurring. Now, everyone knows that Alsatian traditional costumes feature enormous red or black hair bows for the women. These women were wearing long scarves that covered their heads, so clearly they weren't Alsatian. They were...Romanian? Or Romany? The pamphlet for the Pentecost Fest indicated that it was one or the other, but it was difficult to translate the word accurately from the French. But anyway, it was a lively group of men and women yipping, whistling, and trilling, dancing in a semi-circle. As we watched, it began to rain, and the troupe crowded into our hotel and into a second-floor overflow room with a bar. The rain didn't stop them from carrying on the festivities--a peek in the door later on revealed that they had gotten a number of tourists to join in the dancing.When the weather cleared up a bit, we went to find our evening meal. We ended up at a lively place that appeared to be mostly locals, as it was somewhat off the tourist track (although that's hard to do in such a small town) and filled with non-charming things such as creepy dolls. We availed ourselves of the tarte flambees, served unceremoniously on a board. The wafer-thin crispy crust was topped with layers of cream, onions and ham bits. Delicious. Frankly, I wish I was eating one right now.
When we eventually wandered back to the hotel, the traditional dancers were still going strong. We mentally wished them godspeed and went to bed.
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