Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Bustle in the City

Episode Date: December 3, 2018

Our story tonight is called “Bustle in the City” and it’s a story about watching the streets of downtown come to life on a dark December night. It’s also about the merriness of seeing friends at the height of the holiday season, the quiet refuge of a room of one’s own, and sending your love in a letter to someone far far away. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. If you enjoy our stories, please share them any way you can with anyone who likes relaxation and good sleep. And follow us on Facebook and Instagram for some extra coziness. Now let me say a bit about how to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you. And if you relax and follow along with the sound of my voice,

it'll take the place of the stories that have buzzed in your head all day. And before you know it, you'll be drifting off to sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find that you are still awake at the end of the second telling, not to worry. That's just fine. Just walk yourself back through any of the details that you remember,

and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and relaxed. Each time you do this, you are training your brain to shut off faster and more completely, and finding deep, restful sleep will soon become the norm for you. Now it's time to turn off the light. Take one last sip of water and snuggle down into your favorite sleeping position. Get your pillow in the perfect spot and take a slow deep breath in through your nose and

out through your mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. Breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Bustle in the City, and it's a story about watching the streets of a downtown come to life on a dark December night. It's also about the merriness of seeing friends

at the height of the holiday season, the quiet refuge of a room of one's own, and sending your love in a letter to someone far, far away. Bustle in the City From the frosty window of my little apartment, I could see through the streets of downtown into the park, where the big city Christmas tree was being strung with lights. It had come in on a long flatbed truck this morning,

and since then clusters of people bundled in coats had busied themselves around it. It had taken a while and some yelling and frantic arm-waving from the people in charge, but now it stood straight and tall in the middle of the park, and in a few hours it would be lit for the first time this season. I stepped back from the window and looked around at my own snug space, which I'd just finished decorating. Strings of colored fairy lights circled around the windows and stretched across the bricks and beams of my old apartment.

My little tree, set up on a table by the window, with just lights and some paper ornaments I'd cut myself, blinked merrily, and I knew my neighbor and her little girl in the apartment across the street could see it from their window, and I liked that. I took the last sip from my cup of cinnamon coffee and set it in the sink. I was meeting some friends in the park for the tree lighting, but first had a bit of shopping to do. So I tied on my boots, wrapped my coat and scarf tight around me, found the mittens I'd somehow not lost yet, and headed out.

I lived on the third floor of an old brick building, right in the center of the city. There were only a few apartments in the building, all like mine, little rooms with tall ceilings and old wood floors. I took the stairs down to the street and stepped out into the afternoon air. It was cold and I filled my lungs. I could smell the chilled, clean scent of snow in the air and the fresh, green pine scent of the tree

that would be lit tonight. On the street level of our building, we had a sweet little bookshop that I stopped into at least once a week. They were open late tonight, and I looked in through the shop front and watched a few people browsing and reading. They had a reading nook set right into the front window of the shop, with a broad wooden

bench and a curved canopy of walnut above it. A boy in his teens sat in it, engrossed in a book about a starship and a mission to Mars. I saw the owner of the shop behind the register, and we waved at each other, and I started to walk. The streets were busy, people shopping, looking at the window displays and bumping into friends on the corners. I had a favorite shop on the next street. They sold pretty stationery, funny old cards, and a strange collection of music and nice-smelling soaps and potted plants and hand-knitted scarves. I had a feeling that the owner just randomly bought anything he liked

and put it out without any sort of plan. Sometimes the best plan is no plan. I was looking for a card for a friend of mine who lived on the other side of the world. I didn't send many Christmas cards, but I wanted to send one to her. I liked thinking of her opening her letterbox and seeing my handwriting on the envelope and feeling like she was home. I thumbed through the cards and found one with a vintage illustration that reminded me of my little tree up in the window. I bought it and tucked it into my bag and stepped back out onto the streets.

I stopped in a few more shops on my way to my friends. I bought a pair of earrings to send to my sister, a book about identifying native birds for a friend, and, on a whim, a jigsaw puzzle for the little girl across the street. I could hear music coming from the park. It was getting darker, and I made my way through the bustling crowds to the center of town. I spotted my friends clustered around the front door of a coffee shop across from the park, and I called out to them.

This was a yearly tradition. Sometimes we got dinner, sometimes we sat in the pub all night. But always we watched the tree lighting and shared some holiday cheer. We were a big group and took over some seats and benches around a heater on the edge of the park Someone had thought ahead and brought a thermos of hot chocolate and some paper cups We passed it around and sent a few of our number out to the street vendors For popcorn And those hot candied nuts that they tie into paper cones.

The square around us was filling with people. More friends, shopkeepers, and people I passed on the street every day. More families with kids sitting on shoulders to get a good view of the tree. It was almost time. The band got a bit louder, and the crowd turned its attention as one. Someone with an old microphone was speaking on a fuzzy, far-off speaker, telling us what we already knew. The holidays were here.

In the dark nights, there was also light. And coming together to share it was a good idea. The drum rolled, the kids clapped and stomped in a fever of anticipation. There was a moment of quiet all over the city, and then the lights came on. A tower of a tree stood, lit in her glory in our park, and we all clapped and whistled our approval. Not long after, we called it a night. We squeezed hands and hugged and pressed red cheek to red cheek and said happy holidays and be safe and sleep tight.

The streets were looped with strings of lights, and I took my time, walking back to my flat, looking in the shop windows, and smelling the good smells of the vendors and the cold night air along the way. I liked my life. I liked to be out in the bustle of the city, out with my friends, busy and merry on a December night. But I also liked the quiet solitude of my little apartment. The stillness, the simple decorations I'd set up. The sound of the old radiators hissing with steam.

The bookshop was closed up now. The streets were quieting, and just as I turned to go in, a few silent flakes floated down, and I caught them in the palm of my mittened hand. I smiled up at the streetlights, showing a pattern of fluffy flakes coming down. I couldn't wait to watch them from my favorite window upstairs, curled into my chair,

with a blanket tucked in around me. I turned the key in the lock and tucked myself in for the night. Bustle in the City From the frosty window of my little apartment, I could see through the streets of downtown, into the park, where the big city Christmas tree

was being strung with lights. It had come in on a long flatbed truck this morning, and since then clusters of people, bundled in coats, had busied themselves around it. It had taken a while, and some yelling and frantic arm-waving from the people in charge, but now it stood straight and tall in the middle of the park, and in a few hours it would be lit for the first time this season. I stepped back from the window and looked around at

my own snug space, which I'd just finished decorating. Strings of colored fairy lights circled around the windows and stretched across the bricks and beams of my old apartment. My little tree, set up on a table by the window, with just lights and some paper ornaments I'd cut myself. Blinked merrily, and I knew my neighbor and her little girl in the apartment across the street could see it from their window. And I liked that. I took the last sip from my cup of cinnamon coffee and set it in the sink. I was meeting some friends in the park for the tree lighting,

but first had a bit of shopping to do. So I tied on my boots, wrapped my coat and scarf tight around me, found the mittens I'd somehow not lost yet, and headed out. I lived on the third floor

of an old brick building, right in the center of the city. There were only a few apartments in the building, all like mine, little rooms with tall ceilings and old wood floors. I took the stairs down to the street and stepped out into the afternoon air. It was cold, and I filled my lungs. I could smell the chilled, clean scent of snow in the air,

and the fresh green pine scent of the tree that would be lit tonight. On the street level of our building, we had a sweet little bookshop that I stopped into at least once a week. They were open late tonight, and I looked in through the shop front and watched a few people browsing and reading. They had a reading nook

set right into the front window of the shop with a broad wooden bench and curved canopy of walnut above it. A boy in his teens sat in it, engrossed in a book about a starship and a mission to Mars. I saw the owner of the shop behind the register, and we waved at each other, and I started to walk. The streets were busy. People shopping, looking at the window displays, and bumping into friends on the corners. I had a favorite shop on the next street.

They sold pretty stationery, funny old cards, and a strange collection of music and nice smelling soaps and potted plants and hand-knitted scarves. I had a feeling that the owner just randomly bought anything he liked and put it out without any sort of a plan. Sometimes the best plan is no plan. I was looking for a card for a friend of mine who lived on the other side of the world. I didn't send many Christmas cards, but I wanted to send one to her. I liked thinking of her opening her letterbox and seeing my handwriting on the envelope

and feeling like she was home. I thumbed through the cards and found one with a vintage illustration that reminded me of my little tree up in the window. I bought it and tucked it into my bag and stepped back out onto the streets. I stopped in a few more shops on my way to my friends. I bought a pair of earrings to send to my sister, a book about identifying native birds for a friend, and, on a whim, a jigsaw puzzle for the little girl across the street. I could hear music coming from the park.

It was getting darker, and I made my way through the bustling crowds to the center of town. I spotted my friends, clustered around the front door of a coffee shop, across from the park, and I called out to them. This was a yearly tradition. Sometimes we got dinner. Sometimes we sat in the pub all night. But always we watched the tree lighting and shared some holiday cheer. We were a big group and took over some seats and benches around a heater on the edge of the park. Someone had thought ahead and brought a thermos of hot chocolate and some paper cups.

We passed it around and sent a few of our number out to the street vendors for popcorn and those hot candied nuts they tie into paper cones. The square around us was filling with people. More friends, shopkeepers, and people I passed on the street every day. More families with kids, sitting on shoulders to get a good view of the tree. It was almost time.

The band got a bit louder, and the crowd turned its attention as one. Someone with an old microphone was speaking on a fuzzy, far-off speaker, telling us what we already knew. The holidays were here. In the dark nights, there was also light, and coming together to share it was a good idea. The drum rolled. The kids clapped and stomped in a fever of anticipation.

There was a moment of quiet all over the city, and then the lights came on. A tower of a tree stood, lit in her glory, in our park, and we all clapped and whistled our approval. Not long after, we called it a night.

We squeezed hands and hugged and pressed red cheek to red cheek and said, happy holidays and be safe and sleep tight. The streets were looped with strings of lights and I took my time, walking back to my flat, looking in the shop windows and smelling the good smells of the vendors and the cold night air along the way.

I liked my life. I liked to be out in the bustle of the city, out with friends, busy and merry on a December night. But I also liked the quiet solitude of my little apartment, the stillness, the simple decorations I'd set up, the sound of the old radiators hissing with steam. The bookshop was closed up now. The streets were quieting, and just as I turned to go in, a few silent flakes floated down,

and I caught them in the palm of my mittened hand. I smiled up at the streetlights, showing a pattern of fluffy flakes coming down. I couldn't wait to watch them from my favorite window upstairs, curled into my chair with a blanket tucked in around me. I turned the key and tucked myself in for the night. Sweet dreams.