Get Sleepy: Sleep meditation and stories - A Sleepy Day in the Life of City Animals (Extended Bonus)

Episode Date: August 13, 2024

Narrator: Simon Mattacks 🇬🇧 Writer: Jessica Miller ✍️ Sound design: city hum, birdsong 🏙️🐦  Welcome back, sleepyheads. Tonight we've stitched together four sweet, sleepy stories into one long-length episode. We think you're going to love it! 😴 A Sleepy Day in the Life of a London Mouse (5:20) A Sleepy Day in the Life of a Paris Sparrow (40:05) A Sleepy Day in the Life of an Istanbul Cat (1:06:25) A Sleepy Day in the Life of a Roman Fox (1:34:55) Watch, listen and comment on this episode on the Get Sleepy YouTube channel. And hit subscribe while you're there! Enjoy various playlists of our stories and meditations on our Slumber Studios Spotify profile. Support Us   - Get Sleepy’s Premium Feed: https://getsleepy.com/support/.  - Get Sleepy Merchandise: https://getsleepy.com/store.  - Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/get-sleepy/id1487513861.  Connect  Stay up to date on all podcast news and even vote on upcoming episodes!  - Website: https://getsleepy.com/.  - Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/getsleepypod/.  - Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/getsleepypod/.  - Twitter: https://twitter.com/getsleepypod.  Get Sleepy FAQs Have a query for us or need help with something? You might find your answer here: Get Sleepy FAQs About Get Sleepy  Get Sleepy is the #1 story-telling podcast designed to help you get a great night’s rest. By combining sleep meditation with a relaxing bedtime story, each episode will guide you gently towards sleep.    Get Sleepy Premium Get instant access to ad-free episodes, as well as the Thursday night bonus episode by subscribing to our premium feed. It's easy! Sign up in two taps!  Get Sleepy Premium feed includes:  Monday and Wednesday night episodes (with zero ads). The exclusive Thursday night bonus episode. Access to the entire back catalog (also ad-free). Extra-long episodes Exclusive sleep meditation episodes. Discounts on merchandise. We’ll love you forever. Get your 7-day free trial: https://getsleepy.com/support.    Thank you so much for listening!  Feedback? Let us know your thoughts! https://getsleepy.com/contact-us/.   That’s all for now. Sweet dreams ❤️ 😴 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Welcome to Get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy. I'm your host, Thomas, and it's so lovely to have you here. Thanks for joining me for this very special episode, a long length stitch of a series of stories set in various cities where we see the world through the eyes of some of their sweet animal residents. They are all written by Jessica and read by Simon and you can listen along in carefree comfort knowing that Simon's voice will be by your side for a number of hours to come. Usually

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show notes. Thank you so much my friends. So let's get ready to listen along tonight by spending a few minutes settling down and easing into rest. Close your eyes if you haven't already done so, and just roll your shoulders back two or three times pressing their weight into the mattress below. Feel the way your body is comfortably supported giving your muscles a chance to rest and recharge. And as you breathe at a steady gentle pace, just allow any thoughts to come and think about whatever it likes for the next few moments. Breathe in and breathe out. In and out.

Enjoy the stillness and the calm of the space you are in and allow your body and mind to gradually transition into that same state of stillness. There's no need for pressure and no rush to fall asleep. and no rush to fall asleep. You're safe, calm and comfortable and that's all that matters for now. Invite space in your imagination to picture the scenes that Simon describes in our stories tonight. And whenever you're ready, you can carry that gentle imagery into your own pleasant dreams. We start off our four-part episode in the bustling city of London, England. There, a sweet little mouse named Percival is waking up to a brand new day. This is where our story begins. It is a misty London morning. The sun is just starting to peep over the horizon.

Percival cracks open his eye, stretches his tail, and sits up with a big yawn. Percival is a very small mouse in a very big city, and that is just the way he likes it. There is no one to tell him what to do, or where to go, or even where he should sleep at night. So every night Percival finds a different sleep spot for himself. And every morning he wakes up somewhere new and exciting. This morning Percival wakes up in Hyde Park underneath a statue of a boy. boy. The boy is blowing a horn, and all around him, tiny fairies and animals are gathered to listen to his tune. There is a small sign at the bottom of the statue. Percival reads it. The boy is a character from a children's book. His name is Peter Pan. He is a magical boy who never grows up and lives in a fantastic place called Neverland. Neverland seems like an interesting place to visit, Percival thinks to

himself. But there's so much to do in London, he's not sure if he'll have time to make the trip. Percival scurries through the park. It's already busy. Joggers are running in loops. Parents are pushing babies in pr secluded corner at the edge of the park. Here there are four enormous marble fountains. Percival sighs and closes his eyes a moment, listening to the peaceful ripple and bubble of the water. Then he opens his eyes and chooses the splashiest fountain of all to dive into, perfect for his morning bath. Feeling clean and refreshed, Percival is ready to start his day. In a city as hustling and bustling as London, every day is an adventure. But today is especially exciting for Percival.

Percival has a cousin called afternoon tea at three o'clock. Percival leaves Hyde Park and darts over the road to Paddington train station, where a big clock hangs in the arrival hall. hangs in the arrival hall. It is nine in the morning. That leaves Percival plenty of time to get to Buckingham Palace. But what should he do in between? His stomach gives a little mouse-sized rumble. Of course, first, Percival needs to find a delicious breakfast. In London, you can find food from every country in the world. Kebabs from Turkey, baguettes from France, Ethiopian injera bread, and samosas from India. But right now, Percival feels like a nibble of a very English treat, Bakewell tart. A Bakewell tart has a buttery pastry shell. Inside, it's filled with strawberry jam and sweet custard, and it's topped with paper-thin almond flakes. The best Bakewell tart in town is from a famous cake shop in Soho.

Percival scurries through the station until he reaches Paddington's Underground subway. Underground Subway. Of course, he doesn't call it that. Londoners call their subway the Tube, and it's the oldest underground railway in the world. In fact, Paddington Station was the very first tube station opened in 1863. At nine in the morning, Paddington station is very busy. People in suits are rushing off to work. Newspaper sellers are waving papers in the air. Buskers are playing cheerful songs, and children are hurrying to school.

The train pulls up, and Percival hops aboard. With a whoosh, it pulls away from the platform and whizzes through a tunnel under the city streets. As he counts down the stops until he reaches Soho, Percival peeks at the headlines. On the newspaper, one of his fellow passengers is reading. fellow passengers is reading. Lovely summer's day in London, reads one story. Beneath it, another announces, King will wave to crowds from his Buckingham Palace balcony this afternoon. Percival hops off the train in Soho and darts straight for his favorite bakery.

Upon entering, he breathes in the most tantalizing aroma. He smells the flaky choux pastry of fresh profiteroles. He catches the buttery scent of piping hot scones. And then there it is, the whisker, tremblingly delicious smell of jam and custard and pastry and almond all mingled together. Bakewell tart. Percival waits in the doorway, watching as customers walk in and out again, carrying paper bags of treats. A man in a pinstripe suit orders a Bakewell tart.

Percival follows him down the footpath to Soho Square, where the man sits on a shaded bench and takes a big bite of tart. Percival is ready and waiting to catch the crumbs as they fall. Delicious! Licking the last traces of custard and jam from his whiskers, Percival strolls through Soho Square. He has the whole morning ahead of him. He decides he'll go to Regent Street to do some shopping.

A girl in a bright flowered dress rides her bicycle through the square. She's heading in exactly the direction Percival wants to go. He scurries up the back wheel and settles into the girl's satchel. He peeks out over the edge, feeling a gentle breeze ruffle his fur. The city streets zoom by. Soon enough, Percival recognizes the wide avenue of Regent Street, lined on either side with tall, grand buildings. The girl stops at a red light and Percival hops down and goes straight through the front door

of one of the oldest department stores in London. Inside, with its stained glass windows and high arched roof, it looks more like a castle than a shop. First, Percival walks through the clothing department, swishing past racks of skirts and trousers and scarves. In the china-ware section, he clambers over porcelain teacups and saucers, and his paws make a tinkling sound against the china. In homewares, he nestles up between squashy cushions

and soft pillows. He sighs with contentment. Percival is so comfortable, he nearly closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. He must spend the night sleeping in this linen department soon, he thinks. Finally, he heads up the stairs to the top floor and his very favorite part of the store, stationery.

Here, across old oak tables, notebooks are piled high. Percival takes a deep sniff. He loves the fresh, creamy smell of new paper. There are cabinets, too, filled with dozens of teeny tiny drawers. Inside each drawer, a beautiful fountain pen. And stacked in a pyramid are pots of ink in every color. Percival admires shimmering deep blue ink, midnight black ink, mossy green ink, and crimson red ink. Very carefully, he dips one paw into an inkwell and, at the back of a notebook, leaves a

tiny paw print in bright purple ink. He laughs to himself, wondering who will buy the notebook and how surprised they'll be when they find a mouse's paw print on the very last page. At the counter stands a family, two parents and two children. The son has chosen a shiny new notebook, the daughter a pen that writes with glittering blue ink. As their purchases are wrapped in tissue paper, Percival overhears them, discussing where they'll go next.

221B Baker Street, the home of the famous fictional detective Sherlock Holmes. Percival would quite like to visit Sherlock Holmes' house, he decides. So he climbs up the counter and leaps into the bag as the shop assistant hands it to the daughter. In this manner, the family leave the shop, the daughter swinging the bag between her fingers, and make their way to 221B Baker Street, taking Percival the Field Mouse with them.

Inside 221B Baker Street, Percival leaps out of the carrier bag and marvels at the apartment he finds himself in. It feels like he has stepped backward through time. The room is lined with shelves filled with leather-bound books. A fire crackles in the fireplace, and an old-fashioned roll-top desk is covered with all the tools Sherlock used to solve his cases. A chemistry set with a beaker of strange liquid bubbling over a Bunsen burner, an abacus, sheets of paper covered in complicated mathematical calculations, invisible ink, encyclopedias on topics from Scottish wildflowers to oceanography, and of course, the long-stemmed pipe that Sherlock used to sit and explain

how he solved yet another case with the words, elementary, my dear Watson. Percival waits till no one else is watching, then leaps up into the chair. It is wonderfully soft and warm here. Before he can stop it, a wide yawn escapes him. But he can't go to sleep yet, tempting as it is. He has an important appointment at Buckingham Palace this afternoon. He hasn't forgotten. Outside Baker Street, Percival wonders what the time is. There's no clock to be seen, and, being a mouse, he can't exactly ask a passerby how late it is.

Luckily, Percival knows just where to find the biggest and best clock in all of London. A red double-decker bus stops at the station just outside Baker Street and Percival dashes on. He climbs the steps to the top deck, naturally. Every Londoner knows that's where the best views are to be found. Through the window he sees brick houses with chimneys sprouting out of their roofs, oak trees with green leaves, and churches with stained glass windows. At last as the bus approaches his stop, Percival sees the clock. Big Ben.

Big Ben is the name given to the clock tower at Westminster Palace, home of the British government. It's a very impressive tower, nearly 100 meters tall. For a human to reach the top, they'd need to climb up 334 steps. Percival thinks about how many more steps a mouse like he would have to take. On the outside of the tower is an enormous clock, and inside the tower are five gigantic bells. Every 60 minutes the bells ring out, loud and clear, telling all of London that another hour has passed.

Percival looks at the time. It's nearly noon. The bus stops and he scurries off. He is just in time to do one of his favourite things. to do one of his favorite things. He darts through the crowd of people gathered to watch Big Ben ring the hour and runs to the base of the clock tower. He snuggles up, nice and close to the sun-warmed stone and waits until it sounds. and waits until it sounds. The clang of the bell sends a shiver down Percival's spine and sets his tail trembling. But there's no time to stand around admiring the tall clock tower.

Percival has places to go and mice to see. has places to go and mice to see. He never comes over to this side of town without visiting one of his favorite London attractions, Trafalgar Square. He scurries up Parliament Street, stopping to nod his head at 10 Downing Street, the house with the shiny black door. The Prime Minister of Britain and his family live behind that black door,

and so does Poppy, another one of Percival's many, many field mouse cousins. Percival thinks to himself that he must go and visit Poppy sometime. He's heard that the carpets of Downing Street are always spread with delicious crumbs from the scones and sandwiches the Prime Minister and others eat at afternoon tea time. Trafalgar Square is surrounded by busy roads. Cars and buses and taxis whiz to and fro.

Percival doesn't dare cross the street by himself. Instead, he leaps into the pocket of a parking inspector. After the parking inspector crosses the street, Percival leaps down again. Now he is in Trafalgar Square. At the centre of the square is a tall statue called Nelson's Column, named after Horatio Nelson, one of the most famous captains in the British Navy. At the base of the statue are four more statues. Four grand-looking copper lions with flowing manes. Percival's grandma once told him an interesting story about these lions. They may look like statues, she told him,

but really they are the magical protectors of the whole city of London. If the city or its people are ever in danger, Big Ben will chime 13 times and the lions will come to life to protect every Londoner. Percival nods hello to the lions as he passes them. He says hello too to all the pigeons who flock to the square. People come from all over London to Trafalgar Square to feed the pigeons delicious scraps, sometimes even fish and chips. A friendly pigeon offers to share a tasty chip with Percival,

but Percival has a better idea. His next stop will be Borough Market. Percival wanders down to the banks of the Thames, the grand wide river that flows through central London. He breathes in the fresh river air and lets the sunshine warm his whiskers. It is the perfect afternoon for a ride on the ferry. With a gentle chugging sound, the ferry splashes and sploshes down the river. Percival looks up just as the ferry passes beneath the Millennium Bridge,

a shiny modern bridge that glints in the sun. Next, the ferry passes Tower Bridge, an old stone bridge that has stood for centuries. Next to the bridge is the famous Tower of London. Kings and queens used to imprison people there in the olden days. Luckily, now the tower is a museum where the crown jewels are kept safe. Percival went to visit them once. They were beautiful. His favorite was the scepter, a tall gold wand topped with a glittering diamond that has been used at the coronation of every king and queen of Britain

since 1661. Percival daydreams about the shiny jewels all the way to the market. The Borough Market is filled with stalls selling food from across the globe, but there's only one stall Percival is interested in, McClintock's Cheesemongers. Mr. McClintock smiles when he sees Percival and flicks a juicy chunk of cheddar cheese in Percival's direction. Percival gobbles it up and wipes the crumbs from his whiskers.

A family of white mice are nibbling on a rind of brie. They wave hello to Percival, and Percival waves back. But he can't stop and chat. He's just seen the time, nearly three in the afternoon. He has to get to Buckingham Palace. Luckily, he knows the best way to get there. He sneaks onto a London tour bus and, making sure none of the tourists can see him, finds a spot right by the driver. He peers out the window. He sees the dome of St Paul's Cathedral, the giant ferris wheel called the London Eye, and the shiny

new buildings in the city centre. He hears an opera singer practicing an aria from inside the marble halls of the Royal Opera House, and he smells the sweet scent of the rose bushes in Kensington Gardens. The bus dings. Next stop, Buckingham Palace. Percival hops off and darts down onto the street. Here he is at last. The palace lies behind a tall wrought iron fence. Dotted along the fence are small covered shelters, just wide enough for a person to stand in,

known as guard houses. Inside each of these houses stands a palace guard, wearing a bright red jacket and a tall fairy hat. Percival thinks the guards look quite funny, but the guards themselves are very serious. Percival knows that even if he pulls a silly face or sings a ridiculous song or scampers up a guard's trouser leg, their serious expression will stay firmly in place. Just as he's beginning to wonder how he'll get past the guards and the fence, he hears a familiar squeak and spies Petunia waving to him

on the other side of the fence. Petunia waving to him on the other side of the fence. She points to a tiny mouse hole at the back of a guardhouse. Percival scurries through and soon finds himself in the palace gardens. Petunia is so glad to see him. Together, the two mice scamper past perfectly manicured hedges, bright flower beds filled with daffodils, bluebells, and hollyhocks, and a gold and marble fountain, spraying gently bubbling jets of water. They dart through another secret mousehole, and there they are, inside the palace.

Percival can't believe how marvelous Buckingham Palace is. Its ceilings are amazingly high, and its walls are decorated with real gold. Grand paintings of famous kings and queens are hung all over them. Before they sit down to tea, Petunia shows Percival around the palace. They begin at the Grand Staircase, a wide, red-carpeted set of stairs that spirals up, up, up. Percival loves the way his paws feel, sinking into the carpet.

He has never walked on such soft carpet before. They scamper through the white drawing room, where a sparkling chandelier glitters over the heads. Through the gallery, where the walls are covered with pink silk wallpaper, and hung with priceless old paintings in golden frames. And into the throne room, where two red velvet thrones sit atop a platform. Percival, feeling daring, darts up one of the throne's gilded legs and comes to rest on its plush velvet cushion. So this is what it feels like to be royal, he thinks. Through the door of the throne room, Percival spies a familiar figure. He has snow-white hair and he is wearing a grey flannel suit with a green silk necktie.

He turns to look at Petunia, who nods. That is the king himself. Petunia suggests they follow him to the royal balcony. The king is scheduled to wave at the crowds today, Petunia explains, and it is always quite a sight to see. On the balcony, Percival sees the king from behind as he lifts his hand and waves this way and that. Through the railings, he can glimpse the crowd,

a sea of people waving bright red and blue flags and cheering. The balcony is very high up, and past the crowds, Percival can see the palace grounds, the green of Kensington Gardens, the glittering blue of the Thames, and the tall skyscrapers of central London. He sighs happily. He loves being a London mouse. The king says something very softly to one of his footmen. Percival can't make it out exactly, but he thinks he was saying that it is high time for a nice cup of tea.

Percival and Petunia agree. So, Petunia leads him back to her mousehole, which is very nicely decorated, for a cup of piping hot tea and a platter of shortbread cookie crumbs. Percival and Petunia spend a long time together, talking about their mousley adventures.

They talk and sip tea for such a long time that outside the sky turns dark and stars appear. Percival yawns. Patunia insists that he should stay tonight in the palace. She knows the best place of all to sleep. She leads Percival down a secret corridor to a small cupboard. Inside, the cupboard is filled with linen napkins and tablecloths

and fluffy towels, all embroidered with a golden crown. This is the king's personal linen cupboard, Petunia explains. Percival burrows into a pile of soft tablecloths, pulls a napkin up to his chin, and wishes his cousin good night. Being a king must be terribly nice, thinks Percival. But as he snuggles into the snowy white linen, he can't help but think that it is terribly nice to be a London mouse too. With that, he stretches his paws, closes his eyes, and drifts off into a deep, comfortable sleep.

It's a crisp Paris morning at the beginning of autumn. All along the Champs-Elysées, the leaves on theomphe, an enormous limestone monument, built in the shape of an arch, and covered with statues that show scenes from French history. At the other end of this long, wide street is the Place de la Concorde. This historic square is home to two enormous fountains, where rippling water spills and streams over statues of water gods and goddesses. Just beyond the square is the Jardin des Truileries, a large garden that is many hundreds of years old.

In 1783, the world's first manned hot air balloon was launched from the lawn of the Truileries. These days, the gardens are filled with people who come to sit on the rolling green grass or admire the roses and tul beautiful boutiques in the world. There are shops where people can buy old leather-bound books and maps that are more than a hundred years old. There are some that sell silk gloves and others that sell top hats and grand pianos. Most of all, there are shops offering exquisite clothes, gowns and suits and shoes in every color of the rainbow. High in the ceiling rafters of one of these shops is a nest that she has made for herself

out of scraps of silk and velvet. And in this nest, Francoise, the Parisian sparrow, is slowly waking up from a long night's sleep. She opens her eyes, unfurls her wings, and stretches them out. She peers over the rim of her haute couture nest and down into the atelier, which is the French word for workshop, of Paris's most elegant fashion designer. For a moment, the atelier is completely still and silent. Francoise admires the silky smooth bolts of fabric,

the bright gowns draped on mannequins, the needles and pins gleaming in their cushions. And then, whoosh, the shutters of the shop go up. A key turns in the door. The doorbell tinkles as the elegant fashion designer and all her employees swish through the door. They unroll lengths of fabric, unfurl tape measures, and start snipping away with scissors.

Francoise is tempted to stay and see what gorgeous creations they will make. But the day is too sunny, and the sky is too blue to stay inside. She takes a scrap of velvet from her makeshift nest and fashions it into a scarf around her neck. In Paris, even the sparrows like to look elegant, then fastens it just so.

Whistling a bright tune, she flies down from the ceiling, out of the atelier, and soars down the length of the Champs-Élysées. On such a perfect Paris day, there is one place that Francoise knows she simply must visit. The Eiffel Tower, of course. This wrought iron construction is the symbol of Paris. It was built between 1887 and 1889, and at the time it was the tallest structure in the world. People came from far and wide to admire it, as they still do today.

As Francoise flies towards the tower, she sees a small crowd of tourists has already gathered at its base. She flies low. She loves to see the smiles on the tourists' faces as they peer up at the impressive tower. Some tourists are buying tickets that will let them take the elevator up to the viewing platform, close to the tower's top. This is one of the best places in Paris to see a panoramic view of the city.

One of the best places, but not the best place. That is a secret known only to sparrows. Francoise is on her way there now. Francoise is on her way there now. She flies up, spinning and twirling past the first level of the Eiffel Tower, past the second level, past the viewing platform on the third level, where a group of tourists is pointing and snapping their cameras. Up, up, up. Until she reaches the tower's very top and perches there. All of Paris spreads out beneath her like a beautiful, colorful patchwork.

Below the slowly drifting clouds, she sees the grand wide boulevards of the city center. Rows upon rows of elegant stone apartment buildings with slate roofs, with clusters of old-fashioned chimneys sprouting from them. She sees the bright twinkle of the glass pyramid that stands outside the Louvre. The emerald green lawns of the Parc des Bouchements. The red, white, and blue stripes of the French flag flying over the Palais Bourbon,

where the French government meets. She feels the wind swirling around her, hears the hum of traffic, and the zoom of airplanes high in the sky, the hum of traffic and the zoom of airplanes high in the sky, and smells all the scents of Paris in the fall, roasting chestnuts and coffee and perfume and freshly baked baguette. Mmm, freshly baked baguette. All of a sudden, Francoise's sparrow stomach begins to rumble. Perhaps it's time for an early lunch.

She swoops down from the Eiffel Tower and flies low over the city. Cool, sunny days like today are perfect for picnicking. As she flies over the banks of the Canal Saint-Martin, Francoise sees Parisians unfolding checked picnic blankets and laying them with bread, gooey French cheese, sliced tomatoes, crunchy radishes, and bottles of sparkling water. Now, Francoise is really hungry.

Luckily, she knows of a street market just around the corner from here. She flies down a narrow cobblestone alley crowded with market stalls. Each stall displays its produce. Francoise flies over pyramids of pale green cabbage, piles of potatoes, and barrels filled with juicy apples. She sees baskets heaped with blueberries and raspberries, raspberries, delicate gold chanterelle mushrooms, and glossy plums.

She lingers over a stall selling fresh croissants, panneau chocolat, and escargots, a swirly snail-shaped pastry filled with custard and raisins. snail-shaped pastry filled with custard and raisins. Finally, she makes her selection, a scrap of creamy brie from the cheesemonger, some baguette crumbs from the bakery, and for dessert, a bright red cherry. With her feast gathered in her claws, Francoise flies back to the canal.

She makes straight for her favorite tree, a plain tree with broad branches, just perfect for a sparrow-sized picnic. As she nibbles her way through the still warm baguette, the ooey gooey cheese, and the juicy cherry, she watches the canal boats gliding up and down the river and listens to the rhythmic swish of the water. She hears the strains of an accordion and flies to find where the music is coming from.

In a small square, a busker sits, squeezing his accordion back and forth. He is singing one of Francoise's favorite songs, La Vie en Rose, made famous by the Parisian singer Edith Piaf. Francoise especially loves Edith Piaf because the not very tall singer was nicknamed the Little Sparrow. This song is all about seeing life through rose-colored glasses,

appreciating all the happiness that life has to offer. Francoise lands on the ground by the busker's cab, which is filled with gleaming euro coins, and hops back and forth on her dainty feet in time to the music. When the busker finishes, the small crowd that has gathered around him applauds and he gives Francoise a knowing wink. Then he picks up his cap, packs up his accordion, and walks away.

He's off on his next adventure, and so is Francoise. She soars over the spires of Notre Dame Cathedral, then decides to stop in at one of the city's most famous bookshops. This rickety old building is filled top to bottom with books. Inside, customers browse, chat, read newspapers, and even doze in the comfortable armchairs scattered here and there. It's always so bustling in here that no one notices or minds the sight of a sparrow hopping from shelf to shelf.

of a sparrow popping from shelf to shelf. Inside the shop, Francoise takes a deep sniff. In her opinion, no shop in the world smells better than this one, with its bookish aroma of paper and ink and a hint of furniture polish. Delightful. She hops straight for the shelf marked Fiction Authors, Hugo de Wiesman, and finds the book she is currently reading, Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.

Francoise has been reading this book for many months now, a few pages or paragraphs at a time whenever she chances to pass by this bookshop. She finds the page she is on and reads a heartwarming scene where the orphan girl Cosette is reunited with her friend Jean Valjean. When Francoise is finished reading, she remembers the page number for her next visit, then flies away. A sugary sweet scent stops her in midair. Francoise isn't very hungry after her lunch, but she wouldn't mind the smallest nibble of something sweet. Where is the smell coming from? She flies in slow circles until she finds the source of the smell.

Macarons. She lands on the pavement outside of a famous macaron boutique. Macarons are delicate sandwich cookies made from a gooey almond batter, and softly flavored with vanilla or lemon or pistachio or lavender or cherry. Francoise darts inside. A rainbow of macarons sits behind a glass counter. At little tables, Parisians sit enjoying delicious treats. Francoise flits from table to table until she comes across a crumb of her favorite flavor, orange blossom.

It tastes sweet and creamy and tart all at the same time. Outside the afternoon is turning into twilight and the Paris sky has turned a deep shade of blue. Soon it will be dark. Francoise knows just what she wants to do next. The Louvre is a grand museum with more than 35,000 works of art on display at any given time. And it closes at precisely 6pm today. At 5.59pm, Francoise flies in through the museum's open doors. Inside, security guards are hurrying the day's last visitors out,

so they can begin locking up the museum. But none of the guards looks up to see the small sparrow, Francoise, flitting around the ceiling. One by one, the guards start pulling the windows shut and locking them tightly. Francoise doesn't have much time, but that's not a problem. She knows just the painting she wants to see. She flies straight to the Sal de Zeta, the largest room in the gallery.

This is where Leonardo da Vinci's painting of the Mona Lisa hangs. of the Mona Lisa hangs. During the day, it is difficult to see the Mona Lisa. So many people are crowded around the famous work of art. But after the Louvre closes, that isn't a problem. Francoise flies have taken to the world. The painting is just as beautiful as some of her sparrow friends have taken to the world.

The painting is just as beautiful as some of her sparrow friends have taken to the world. The painting is just as beautiful as some of her sparrow friends have taken to the world. The painting is just as beautiful as some of her sparrow friends have told her. They also told her a rumor. There is an interesting optical illusion in this painting. this painting. No matter where you are in relation to it, the Mona Lisa's smiling eyes appear to look directly at you. Francoise flies to the right. The Mona

Lisa looks at her. She flies to the left. The Mona Lisa still looks at her. Incredible. She would like to stay for longer, but she hears the footsteps of a guard approaching. She soars up to the top level of the gallery, finds a window that is still unlocked and flies out into the Paris night. It is properly dark now and all of Paris is glittering with light. The opera house and the Louvre are illuminated. are illuminated. Across the dark waters of the Seine, the river that runs through the city,

all the bridges are lit up and glowing. The Eiffel Tower shimmers with dazzling lights. No wonder Paris is called the City of Light, thinks Francoise. And in fact, Paris has had this nickname for centuries. Ever since, it became the first European city to install gas lighting along its streets. Francoise follows the glittering lights all the way to the Latin Quarter, where narrow, cobbled streets are lined with bistros and cafes. The sidewalks are crowded with tiny tables, where people eat and laugh and chatter.

Waiters in long white aprons move nimbly between the tables, carrying big plates of pomfret and bowls of bouillabaisse and pots of rich French onion soup, topped with crusty bread and melted cheese. One café has a jazz band playing inside. Francois hears a guitar thrumming, a double bass plunking, a trumpet tootling, and a saxophone blowing. The men in the band wear waistcoats and broad brimmed hats. The women wear bright dresses

patterned with polka dots and flowers. Everyone in the cafe is standing, clapping, and dancing in time to the music. Soon, the people on the sidewalk join in. The whole street is dancing. Francoise swoops and turns in the air, making the same wild loop-de-loop as the music she can hear below. The band plays an encore and then another encore.

At last, they fall silent. The street starts to empty, and Francoise's wings are starting to feel a little bit heavy. That's not so surprising. They have carried her all around Paris today. Francoise flies low over the now quiet street. Someone has dropped a bit of silk material. Francoise looks around. She can't find its owner anywhere. So she picks it up in her beak. It will make the perfect lining for a nest. And speaking of nests, it has been a very long day.

From the Champs-Élysées to the Eiffel Tower, from the macaron shop to the Louvre, Francoise has seen and done so many things, and there's only one place left to visit. She flies up through the Montmartre neighborhood to the Sacre-Coeur Basilica. This big white church with its magical looking domes, is over 100 years old. Francoise flies up to the topmost dome of the church and pulls together a nest from sturdy twigs and cozy feathers, and she lines it with her new piece of silk. And she lines it with her new piece of silk. She hops into her nest, folds her wings, and snuggles down.

She is toasty warm. And when she wakes up tomorrow, she knows she will have a beautiful view down the hill of Montmartre, all the way to the shimmering blue of the Seine River. She is still thinking to herself how wonderful her favorite city, Paris, will look under the glow of tomorrow morning sunrise when her head droops onto her chest and her eyes fall closed and she falls into a deep, long sleep. Sleep.

It's early morning on a pleasant spring day in Istanbul. Sparrows are singing and the city is in full bloom. The branches of the city's erguvant trees are heavy with big pink blossoms. Purple wisteria sprouts on the crumbling walls of the old city, and in the public spaces from Yildiz Park to Taksim Square, the flowerbeds are bright with unfolding tulips. Mehmet, the cat, doesn't see any of this. He is snoozing, cozy and comfortable, The cat doesn't see any of this. He is snoozing, cozy and comfortable, curled up into a ball on a pile of kilim rugs. It is very dark and quiet in the Grand Bazaar,

the historic covered market where Mehmet is sleeping, but it won't stay that way for long. historic covered market where Mehmet is sleeping. But it won't stay that way for long. There are footsteps, the creak of a heavy centuries old wooden door slowly opening. A shaft of golden sunlight shines through the dark. Mehmet stares and blinks one eye slowly open. He sees the stall holders coming into the bazaar

to start their day. He hears the squeak of windows opening and the whir of a coffee grinder a few stalls over. He smells the rich, delicious scent of fresh ground coffee beans. He uncurls from his sleeping position, stands up, and does an enormous stretch from the tips of his ears all the way down his spine, right to the bottom of his padded feet.

He springs down from the pile of rugs, but only after he has used his tail to swipe away any stray cat hairs he's shared in the night. He is sure the owner of the stall wouldn't be pleased to find marmalade-colored hair on his antique woolen rugs. Mehmet wants to stretch his legs. Luckily, there is plenty of space in the Grand Bazaar. This market hall is large and maze-like, with more than 60 covered lanes lined either side with stalls.

There are over 4,000 stalls, in fact. And the merchants of Istanbul have been selling everything from gleaming gold jewellery and fine rugs to fragrant apple tea and tasty spices here for 500 years. Mehmet goes from stall to stall, stopping here and there to admire anything especially interesting. He pauses briefly at a spice stall, where powdered spices are held in copper barrels and heaped into enormous pyramids. Sweet cinnamon, bright yellow saffron,

and orange turmeric. He stretches his neck back to admire a stall hung all over with brightly painted glass lanterns. He watches as a merchant unrolls carpet after carpet in a kaleidoscope of colour and pattern. He stops to sniff the air outside a stall that sells perfume oils in large glass jars. He smells rose and amber and aniseed. Delicious. Then there is a low growl. Mehmet looks around to see where it's coming from.

It's not from the stall holder nearby who is sitting down to a Turkish breakfast of tea, salty sheep's cheese, warm fresh bread and sweet cherry jam. And it's not from the dog sitting under the table, munching on a tasty chicken kebab. He has pilfered from one of the food stalls in the market. No, the growling is coming from Mehmet's own belly. It's time for breakfast. There are so many options here.

A charcoal-grilled shish kebab, a flaky pastry filled with cheese or spinach, a fresh, summit roll sprinkled with delicious sesame seeds. But there's only one thing that he's hankering after, fresh fish. Licking his whiskers with anticipation, Mehmet slinks out the front door of the Grand Bazaar. He winds his way onto the cobb domes of a mosque and through a bustling port, to where the Galata Bridge stretches over the Bosporus Strait.

The Bosporus is wider than a river, narrower than a sea. This waterway divides the continent of Europe from that of Asia. Right now, Mehmet is standing on the European side of the strait. If he stood on his tiptoes and looked across to the other side, he would see Asia.

But just this minute, Mehmet is more concerned with breakfast than geography. All along the Galata Bridge, hundreds of people lean fishing rods against the railings like a thick forest of long trees, thinks Mehmet. Every so often, there is a splash, and one of the rods jerks upwards with a delicious fish at the end of its line.

But even more scrumptious than freshly caught river fish is balik ekmek, a fish sandwich made on one of the famous boats that floats in the strait. After the fishermen on these boats catch a fish, they slap it immediately onto the steaming grill that hisses and smokes at the center of the boat. Once the fish is cooked just right, one of the boatmen places it on a roll of crusty white bread, squeezes juicy lemon over it and wraps it in paper to pass to the eager customers waiting on the shore. Mehmet slinks over to his favourite boat, and the chef behind the grill winks when he catches sight of the marmalade cat.

He tosses a sandwich in his direction and Mehmet gobbles it up. He loves the flaky white fish and the crumbs that collect on his whiskers. Next, Mehmet walks into the historic district of Sultanahmet. He stops to clean his whiskers and freshen his paws in the marble fountains of the square. Before him, he sees the massive domes and minarets, which are a type of long, narrow turret of the Blue Mosque. It's one of the most important buildings in the city.

The mosque's outside walls are covered in beautiful hand-painted blue tiles. are covered in beautiful hand-painted blue tiles. It is this blue colour that gives the mosque its name. Mehmet decides to pay a visit. He walks right by the security guard and the line of people waiting to pray or simply admire the wonderful architecture inside the mosque. Jumping a line may not be acceptable for a person, but it's fine for a cat in Istanbul.

Cats have been welcome and looked after in the city for ages. They originally helped protect grain stores and wooden houses from rats. And now they're free to roam anywhere. Mehmet pads inside the blue mosque. A hush falls. All the noise of the bustling city streets, cars and trucks rumbling and honking, buskers playing traditional music on drums and zithers,

flower sellers crying out to passers-by, melts away. Mehmet's paws sink into the thick, patterned carpets. He looks around. He has been here before, of course, but the intricately tiled walls and wide marble columns are still breathtaking. Best of all, though, is the ceiling. Mehmet finds a cozy nook, curls into the thick carpet and turns his neck upwards. The domed ceilings are studded with stained glass windows that let in rays of bright rainbow-tinged sunlight. Wide, twinkling chandeliers are hung overhead, and the ceilings are painted with intricate patterns in every shade of blue. Mehmet feels his whole body relax as he gazes up at the ceiling. His spine uncurls, his tail loosens,

his legs and belly sink deeper and deeper into the carpet. He lets his chin rest on his neatly folded front paws. A long, low purr escapes him. Nemet could stay here, curled up on the plush carpet, all day. But Istanbul is a big city filled with wonderful things to do. And right now, an idea is floating through Mehmet's mind. It would be lovely, he thinks, to climb to the very top of the Galata Tower. He stretches, stands, and walks out of the Blue Mosque. cobbled streets over the Galata Bridge and into the district of Beolu,

home to the Galata Tower. The tower is tall and narrow, made of crumbling bricks, and topped with a pointy tiled roof. Centuries ago, it was used as a watchtower because it provided views all down the length of the Bosporus Strait. The guards there kept a lookout for any strange ships

and reported them to the Sultan. and reported them to the Sultan. Now, the Galata Tower is no longer a watchtower, but it still has the best view in all of Istanbul. Mehmet climbs the stairs until he reaches the top, then peers out one of the narrow stone windows. He sees the whole city spread before him. The blue of the Bosporus Strait, criss-crossed crossed with boats and barges and bridges, the rounded domes of the city's mosques, apartment buildings and grand old hotels and shiny glass skyscrapers,

and in the distance, tall green hills. in the distance, tall green hills. Coming down from the tower again, Mehmet makes his way up his favorite street in the whole city. It's known colloquially as Music Street. colloquially as Music Street. Many of the shops here sell or repair musical instruments. Mehmet sees guitars and keyboards and drums.

He notices all kinds of traditional Turkish instruments too. Percussion instruments like the darbuka and the davul, and stringed instruments like the popular balama. Enchanting strains of music drift out from the separate shops and meet in the air outside. Mehmet can't help but sway his tail in time to the music as he walks to the small square at the top of the street. Here, he springs up onto a bench and, still listening to the music, he lets his eyes close. He is doing what cats in Istanbul do best, having an afternoon sunbathe. He stretches out on the sun-warmed stone, lets his tail flop to one side and drifts into something almost like sleep. He lies like this for a long time, until the sweet scent of sugar

tickles his nostrils. Feeling rested, he climbs down from his bench and saunters to one of the busiest shopping streets in all of Istanbul. In fact, this street is one of the longest, busiest, and most colorful of its kind in the whole world. The wide cobbled road is lined with elegant buildings, housing shops and restaurants,

cafes and cinemas, flower stalls and coffee bars, where coffee is made the Turkish way, cooked in a small metal pot on a stove until it becomes foamy and creamy. Every now and then, a bell jangles and an old-fashioned red tram clangs down the street. There is one spot on this bustling road

that Mehmet is particularly keen to visit, a famous patisserie that specializes in Turkish sweets. Behind the glass counter, Mehmet sees bowls of sutlac, a milky rice pudding sweetened with cinnamon. And plates of lokma, crispy fried dough in sugar syrup. And every flavor of baklava, a sweet made from layers of pastry and crushed nuts covered in honey. A kindly waiter slips him a slice of honey-drenched baklava. It tastes so good, it sends shivers down Mehmet's spine.

down Mehmet's spine. Back outside the patisserie, Mehmet sees the day is drawing to a close. The sky deepens from blue to black, and the bright neon signs around are switched on, twinkling against the dusk. Mehmet has walked all over the city from end to end. His paws are dusty and his whiskers could use a clean. and his whiskers could use a clean.

Luckily, he knows just the place to go to freshen up. The hamam, a traditional Turkish bath. Mehmet hops a tram to one of the oldest baths in the city. He slips inside the grand stone building. Under its domed roof, the hammam is filled with soothing sounds. The gentle trickling of water, the hiss of steam. It smells of fragrant cedar soap. And it is deliciously warm.

First, Mehmet finds a private marble basin where he scrubs his paws and whiskers and dips them in fresh, cool water. Feeling squeaky clean, he walks into the steam room, where a large marble stone is heated to perfection by an underground fire. Mehmet lays out on a traditional linen towel known as a pestermal, and feels the heat of the marble soaking into his body. It warms his pores and his ears

and spreads across his fur. Next, the heat creeps into his muscles and loosens them one by one. At last, he feels the warmth spreading through his bones. Mehmet has never felt so relaxed. Slowly, after a very long time, he uncurls himself, neatly folds his towel and leaves through the teahouse, where fellow bathers sit enjoying glasses of warm apple tea. The night air is refreshing after the heat of the baths, and the streets are busy and filled with music. But Mehmet is tired after his long day.

He needs somewhere quiet to rest. Tonight, he decides he will sleep like a sultan. He makes his way to the district of Fati, where, overlooking the Bosporus, the Topkapi palace stands. King the Bosporus, the Topkapi Palace stands. In the olden days, this is where Turkey's ruler, the Sultan, lived with his family, all the noblemen and women of his court, and all the other people of the palace.

Scribes, chefs, advisors, fortune-tellers, astronomers, poets, and more. From the outside, this 500-year-old palace is an imposing structure of high, turreted walls and heavy gates. On the inside, though, it is something else entirely. Here, the walls are covered with hand-painted tiles depicting tulips and boats and sacred symbols

and all manner of other things. Every tile is so detailed, Mehmet could spend hours looking at each of them. The ceilings are gilded and carved with detailed patterns. Being inside the palace is like being inside a beautiful jewelry box. The palace is designed as a series of courtyards. As Mehmet wanders from room to room, from courtyard to courtyard, the noise and bustle of the city streets grows quieter.

Soon, he can hardly hear it at all. Mamet almost feels like he has traveled back in time. He slinks through an intricately carved wooden door and finds himself in a walled garden. carved wooden door and finds himself in a walled garden. Low marble benches surround a fountain that ripples softly. When he looks up, he doesn't see any neon signs, just the night sky and a scattering of stars. Olive trees rustle in the wind. The walls of the garden are lined with rose bushes.

The yellow and pink roses are just coming into bloom, and their sweet smell tickles Mehmet's nostrils. He sighs, yawns, and stretches out his whole body. It has been a long day, filled with sights and smells and sounds. And tomorrow promises to be just as good. He thinks sleepily of what he'll have for breakfast in the morning, perhaps fish again. But before too long, his tail starts to droop and his eyes fall shut. He rests his head on his neatly folded paws.

And with one last long yawn, last long yawn, he falls into a deep, refreshing sleep. It is a warm summer morning in Rome and the sun has just peaked over the horizon. The leaves of the city's chestnut trees sway in a gentle breeze. The sparrows and birds that live in their branches are roused from sleep and start to sing their twittering morning song. And in one of the archways of Rome's famous Colosseum, a red fox who goes by the name of Leonardo is stretched out and snoozing.

As the sun warms his fur and the sound of birds singing fills his ears, he slowly opens one eye and looks around. The sky is blue and the sun is shining. What a wonderful day to be a Roman fox. Leonardo rises up onto all four paws and walks out into the middle of the Colosseum, where he does a great, big stretch,

from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail. The Colosseum is one of the oldest buildings in the city. It is an amphitheatre, which means it is a big open-air stage, surrounded by stone walls, decorated with arches and columns. These walls also contain four levels of seating. It was built during the reign of the emperor Vespasian, from enormous blocks of light-coloured travertine limestone. Construction started between the years 70 and 72 CE.

The citizens of ancient Rome visited the Colosseum to watch soldiers, known as gladiators, battle against one another. Luckily, it has been thousands of years since any gladiators fought in the Coliseum. These days, it is visited by tourists who want to admire the ancient architecture and artists who love the way the stone reflects the light,

especially at sunrise and sunset. And it's visited, too, by the occasional fox. The sun has risen now, and soon the Colosseum will be filled with tourists carrying guidebooks and cameras. Leonardo takes a deep breath. The Colosseum will be filled with tourists carrying guidebooks and cameras. Leonardo takes a deep breath. He admires the crisp shadows the arches of the Colosseum cast on the ground and enjoys the warmth of the sun on his fur. Then, from deep in his belly comes a long, low rumble. It's time for breakfast.

And there's no better place in Rome for breakfast than the Nuovo Mercato Esquilino, at least in Leonardo's opinion. The Esquilino Market is in a bustling hall right by the Termini Rail Station, the biggest of its kind in all the city. Outside the market hall, vendors sell big bunches of flowers. Inside, stall holders sell freshly baked bread, fruits and vegetables, cheeses and sliced meats. At the fishmongers, crabs and eels swim in barrels of water. A waft of fresh espresso sets Leonardo's tail trembling.

espresso sets Leonardo's tail trembling. His mouth starts to water when he walks past the stall where a kindly Roman nonna, or grandmother, is shaping fresh parcels of ravioli pasta. And his tongue starts hanging out when he walks past the stall selling piping hot trapezini, triangular pockets of pizza dough stuffed with everything from baked eggplant to parsley pesto. But what Leonardo really wants is soupli, cheese and rice balls. He goes to the stall at the centre of the market,

where Angelo is busy at work behind a sizzling pan. He shapes rice into bite-sized morsels, stuffs them full of delicious mozzarella cheese, then fries them until the rice is steaming and the cheese at its centre is long and stringy. Angelo winks at Leonardo when he sees him, then tosses him some souply fresh from the pan. It tastes delicious, warm and filling, and cheesy and salty. When Leonardo finishes his breakfast, he feels thirsty, so he wanders out to the nearest

piazza to take a cool drink of water from a fountain. It's decorated with a statue of marble water nymphs. In ancient Roman mythology, these nymphs were kind-hearted creatures, a little like mermaids, who reigned over lakes, fountains and springs. It is such a lovely day, the sun is warm but not hot, the sky a perfect blue, that Leonardo decides to do a spot of sightseeing. Where should he wander first? He puts his nose to the air and sniffs.

There is a cool, fresh breeze that smells of blossoms coming from the direction of the pantheon, a famous temple in the heart of the city. Leonardo trots off in the direction of this building. The original structure was built by Marcus Agrippa during the reign of Augustus in the 20s BCE. But that building burnt down. A new structure was commissioned by the emperor Hadrian

and completed in the late 120s CE. This is the pantheon people know today. However, no-one knows exactly why it was built or what the building was used for. That doesn't stop it from being one of the grandest spaces in the city, though. That doesn't stop it from being one of the grandest spaces in the city, though. Like most Roman locals, Leonardo knows that although the bronze doors, marble floors and enormous columns inside the Pantheon are all very impressive, the most impressive view of all comes from looking up.

The ceiling is an enormous concrete dome, one of the biggest domed ceilings in the entire world, with a wide, round window at its very centre. This type of window is known as an oculus, which is the Latin word for eye. When the clouds part and the sun is shining, the oculus lets in a golden shaft of sunlight that illuminates the entire temple. Once he has sufficiently checked in on the pantheon, Leonardo decides he will visit the Spanish steppes

and the Trevi Fountain. There are lots of fountains in Rome, but the Trevi is certainly the most famous. Every time Leonardo sees it, it takes his breath away. It is 26 meters tall, Every time Leonardo sees it, it takes his breath away. It is 26 metres tall, 49 metres wide, and sculpted from travertine. It depicts the eldest titan and water god Oceanus

riding on a carriage drawn by seahorses. oceanus, riding on a carriage drawn by seahorses. Even though it was built long ago, in the 1700s, it is one of this ancient city's newer attractions. As Leonardo draws closer to the fountain, he sees a crowd of tourists, all clutching shiny coins. That is because there is a special superstition surrounding the fountain. Visitors to Rome should stand with their back to the fountain and toss a coin over their shoulder. If it lands in the fountain's turquoise blue water, it means they will visit Rome again someday.

If they toss a coin into the fountain's water twice, they will return to Rome and fall in love. And if they toss three coins into the water, they will return to Rome, fall in love, and get married. Over a million euros' worth of coins are tossed into the fountain each year. Every now and then, when the fountain is filled up with coins, the Roman government collects them and donates them to charity.

Leonardo has never thrown a coin into the fountain, but he loves to rest his paws on the fountain's edge and peer down at the coins glinting in the water. For a while, the fountain is surrounded by tourists, laughing and chattering and throwing coins. But then the crowd thins, and soon, Leonardo is alone. He stretches himself out on its warm stone and lets his tail dangle in the cool water.

The rippling sound of the fountain fills his ears and his eyes drift slowly closed. Soon, he is snoozing in the afternoon sun. When he wakes from his nap, Leonardo stays lying where he is for a moment or two. He enjoys the feeling of the warm marble under his belly, the gentle sun on his fur, and the soothing sounds of the water.

Slowly, he stretches from the bottoms of his paws to the tip of his tail. Then he stands on all fours and springs down from the fountain. He strolls through the square, wondering what he should do next when he spies a little boy with a cup of delicious-looking gelato. With that, it is decided. Leonardo's next stop will be his favourite gelato shop in the entire city.

He wanders down a narrow alley. Here, the buildings are covered with vines and clotheslines are strung from one side to the other. When Leonardo looks up, he sees linen tablecloths and nightgowns and dresses and trousers, all flapping in the sunny breeze. A line of people stand outside the gelato shop. Roberto stands behind the counter

wearing a crisp paper hat and expertly scooping mounds of gelato in every flavor. Pistachio, chocolate, raspberry, hazelnut and stracciatella, a milky vanilla with flakes of dark chocolate. Roberto winks when he sees Leonardo and gestures to a side door. This is the entrance to the kitchen, where Roberto's wife, Julietta, is hard at work mixing the gelato flavours.

She is busy cracking pistachio nuts from their shells when she sees Leonardo. She looks up with a wide smile. She has been working on a new flavor, and she thinks her friend the fox will make an excellent taste tester. She places a scoop of orange blossom gelato in a cup and sets it down before Leonardo.

Leonardo licks the cold, creamy scoop of gelato. He tastes rich, sweet vanilla, and the sharp, sweet tang of orange. The two different flavors dance tunefully together across his tongue, like a beautiful melody. He gives Giulietta a big, foxy grin. Her new flavour is delicious, and in no time at all he has finished his refreshing scoop. Stomach filled with the excellent treat, Leonardo decides to walk up into the hills around the city

to enjoy some afternoon shade. There are seven hills that surround central Rome, and Leonardo's favourite is the Palatine Hill. Legend has it that it is on top of this hill that the city of Rome was first founded. In ancient times, many grand palaces and villas were built on the slopes of the Palatine Hill, and some of them are still standing today, thousands of years later.

Leonardo clambers up the hill and stops at the gates of his favourite villa, the House of Livia. He meanders through the garden garden where tall cypress trees block out the afternoon sun, then through the grand front door. The villa is over 2,000 years old, but in some rooms, it is still possible to see the delicate wall paintings, known as frescoes, that show lush gardens where colourful birds flit from tree to tree.

Under Leonardo's paws are intricate floor mosaics. These are made from hundreds of tiny tiles pieced together to form kaleidoscopic patterns. Leonardo loves to walk through the stone rooms of the villa, imagining the ancient Romans who lived there, dressed in the long-flowing robes they called togas, in the long flowing robes they called togas, lying on low benches around a long stone table to eat their meals.

Perhaps a fox might have even crept into the dining room to sneak some ancient Roman delicacies like juicy green grapes, or even a morsel of sweet fried cheese. Outside the villa, the shadows are growing longer, and all this thought of food has Leonardo's stomach rumbling again. Perhaps it's time for a nice plate of cacio e pepe, thinks the fox, and he descends the

hill making his way back to the city. In the evenings, the streets of Rome are bustling. Waiters in white aprons set out tables and chairs on the sidewalks outside restaurants. Musicians play lilting tunes on the violin or the accordion, and flower sellers carry baskets of roses. Leonardo pricks his nose in the air and takes a long sniff. his nose in the air and takes a long sniff. Among the scent of wisteria flowers and lemon trees and the silty aroma of the Tiber River,

Leonardo catches the deliciously sharp smell of Pecorino cheese. He follows the smell through the winding streets, through the tangled legs of restaurant tables, between potted plants and flower beds, until he finds himself at the door of Umberto's restaurant. Like always, he makes his way to the back door and pokes his snout into the kitchen. Here, Umberto is humming as pasta boils in a pot.

He drains the long strands of pasta, grates a fluffy cloud of Pecorino cheese and cracks fresh pepper. With a splash of pasta water, he mixes all the ingredients together, then with a twirl of his fork, arranges a mound of pasta on a plate. When he sees Leonardo, he smiles. He twirls his fork again, then sets a plate of fresh cacio e pepe right outside the kitchen door for Leonardo. Strand by strand, Leonardo eats the delicious cheesy pasta,

perfectly seasoned with black pepper. As he licks his plate clean, he listens to the sound of musicians performing in the street. The song they are singing is called Volare. It's about a man who dreams of flying in a painted blue sky. Leonardo thinks a painted blue sky sounds very nice indeed. And he knows just where to find the finest painted sky in the city.

He trots through the busy alleyways until he reaches a quiet part of Rome, where grand buildings line wide streets. where grand buildings line wide streets. A fountain ripples quietly in the middle of a grand square. He walks up to the heavy wooden doors of the Sistine Chapel. This centuries-old church has a beautiful marble floor and an impressive altarpiece.

But this is not what Leonardo is here to see. He curls up on the floor and gazes up at the ceiling. Every inch of it is beautifully painted. Every inch of it is beautifully painted. When he looks up, he can see delicate angels with feathered wings and shining gold halos, olive trees with silvery leaves and blue skies with drifting clouds in shades of white and pink and gold. Everywhere he looks, he finds a new detail to admire, a perfectly painted hand or a bright bird hidden in the boughs of a painted tree.

Michelangelo, the artist who painted the chapel, took four years to complete his work, and did some of the painting while lying on his back. It must have been rather uncomfortable, thinks Leonardo. Although lying down doesn't seem such a bad idea. It has been a long day. Along one wall, he finds a soft velvet cushion. He sinks down onto the cushion, folds his paws beneath his head, and gazes up one more time at the marvelous ceiling.

But his eyes are feeling heavy and he can't keep them open very long. Soon he falls into a deep, deep sleep. Deep sleep, here in the beautiful city of Rome. The I'm going to go ahead and start the video. You You You You I'm going to go ahead and start the video. You You You You You You You You You I'm going to go ahead and turn the volume down. I'm going to turn the volume up a little bit. I'm going to turn the volume down a little bit. I'm going to turn the volume up a little bit. I'm going to turn the volume up a little bit. I'm going to turn the volume up a little bit. I'm going to turn the volume up a little bit. I'm going to turn the volume up a little bit.

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