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Tourists visiting the South of France have been filling their travel cases with Savon de Marseille , or Marseilles Soap, for hundreds of years.  Indeed, Marseille is synonymous with soap.  Town documents indicate the first recorded soap maker established his business in the late 14th century. One can imagine the industrious man, wooden paddle in hand, stirring a large vat of bubbling animal and vegetable fats.  By the late 15th century, soap making had become industrialized and Marseille had become an industrial hub for the aromatic luxury. Soon, every fishmonger's wife, unemployed tanner, and broken down farmer throughout the French countryside was making and selling "Savon de Marseille." With keen insight, Louis XIV realized the glut of amateur soap makers in France was contributing to the degradation of a profitable and exportable commodity.  In the  17th century, Louis XIV enacted laws which strictly regulated the production of soap.  The laws, known as the

map-generator.net Day 5: TGV from Paris to Montpellier I woke to the sound of the bells of Sainte-Marie Des Batignolles, their enthusiastic tolls coaxing me awake with the persistence of an eager lover.  Any other morning, I would have slipped my legs out from beneath the blankets, raised my arms above my head, and stretched, before hopping out of bed and running to the window to witness Paris bathed in dawn's decadent glow.  I would have opened the window, leaned out over the wrought iron balcony, and strained to catch the last of Sainte-Marie's delightful tolls. On this particular morning a brutal cold held me within its taloned clutches.  My body was bathed in a feverish perspiration.  My throat felt raw when I swallowed.  I couldn't breath out of my nose or hear out of my left ear.  I pulled the covers over my head to drown out Sainte-Marie's urgent morning greeting.  Resistance proved futile.  She kept on tolling. Reluctantly, I rolled out of bed,

map-generator.net Each time I finish watching a scary movie, I run around the house flipping on the lights, one by one, until I am sure there are no ghosts or bogeyman lurking in the shadowy corners.  And then I turn on happy, upbeat music, like 80s Pop .  It's a ridiculous ritual.  Childish, really.  And yet, I can't seem to break myself of it.  It's as if my soul, heavy from witnessing the darker side of human nature, craves the light. I felt the same way after my M acabre Day in Paris .  Standing over graves, touring subterranean tombs, and learning about serial killers with freaky fetishes had plunged me deep into the darkest recesses of Parisian history.  I wanted to climb up and into the light. So, Sunday morning I found myself sipping tea at a historic cafe in Montmartre, watching curbside artists create mini-masterpieces, and climbing up 225 steps to reach the top of the dome of Sacre Coeur.  Stephanie and I enjoying a sunny morning at Le C