Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Sleeper Car
Episode Date: January 1, 2024Our story tonight is called The Sleeper Car, and it’s a story about a trip where the mode of travel is more important than the destination. It’s also about crisp ironed linens, a little notebook t...hat fits perfectly into your pocket, the mystery of strangers across the dining car, and waking up to a snowy sunrise. Our charity this week is Guide Dogs for the Blind. Everyone deserves to move through the world safely and confidently, and they are helping. https://www.guidedogs.com Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for NMH Premium channel on Apple podcast or follow the link below. https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription Listen to our new show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much on your favorite podcast app. https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/stories-from-the-villagePurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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Welcome to Season 13 of Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Katherine Nicolai.
I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
Wow. Thirteen seasons.
Over 200 episodes.
One fantastic book, if I do say so myself.
And now, three weekly shows,
all from a little idea I had in the middle of the night.
Thank you for listening and for sharing what we do.
It helps us grow and provide more comfort and enjoyment to others.
Our newest show is called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, and it's a daytime
version of our bedtime stories. It joins First This, our 10-minute meditation show,
in giving you lots of ways, morning to night, to feel good and feel connected to what is good in the world.
They're all available for free wherever you listen.
Or you can subscribe for ad-free and bonus early release episodes through the link in our show notes
or by searching NMH Premium Plus on Apple Podcasts.
Our charity this week is Guide Dogs for the Blind.
Everyone deserves to move through the world safely and confidently,
and they are helping.
Find a link to them in our show notes.
Now, I have a story to tell you.
It's a soft place to rest your mind,
and just by listening, you'll be training your brain to settle and to sleep.
I'll tell the story twice, a little slower the second time through.
If you wake again in the night,
you can turn a story right back on,
or sometimes it's enough just to think through
any part of it that you can remember.
This sleep training will improve with time,
so give yourself a few weeks
of regular use
to really get the hang of it.
Now, get as comfortable as you can.
Lights out, maybe a sleep mask or a teddy bear,
or just the right pillow in the right spot.
And then let your whole body relax. Whatever today was like
is what today was like. And now we're here and it's okay to let go.
Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose.
And sigh from your mouth.
One more time, breathe in.
Out with sound.
Good. Our story tonight is called The Sleeper Car,
and it's a story about a trip where the mode of travel is more important than the destination.
It's also about crisp, ironed linens,
a little notebook that fits perfectly into your pocket, the mystery of
strangers across the dining car, and waking up to a snowy sunrise.
The Sleeper Car From the window, a broad white landscape stretched out under the afternoon sun.
We'd just cut through a small city and I could still make out a few buildings in the distance.
I loved passing through towns, watching cars waiting at the crossings
catching a glimpse of people walking on the city streets
with bags slung over their arms
caught up in their own routines
seeing people in this way,
a single frame of their life,
while my own blazed past,
it reminded me that
we were all our own main characters.
And I found myself charmed by the faces I saw
and the stories that might go with them.
I was still thinking about the last town,
the flash of their city square as we sped through,
their tree still lit
and the ice rink in front of it swirling with skaters sped through. Their tree still lit,
and the ice rink in front of it swirling with skaters as the sun began to sink lower
and an orange glow fell on my face.
We were a little more than a day
into our journey,
with a couple more to go before the last stop.
And I was thoroughly enjoying train travel.
I thought I might be bored, but bored was the last thing I was.
I was relaxed, though.
Compared to driving, following directions, watching for traffic and road closures,
this was positively meditative. The scenery was always changing,
though the pace was steady,
and I spent a good deal of time
just looking out the window,
either in the dining car
or here in our compartment.
We'd splurged a bit for this trip,
and since the mode of travel meant more to us than our destination itself,
it had proved worth it.
We had a small stateroom with a wide bed,
a neat little washroom,
and a sofa where we'd sipped our coffee this morning.
I'd never been in such a cozy, well-thought-out space as this little room.
It was engineered for comfort and to fit well within the limited space,
and also with a bit of nostalgia in mind.
And for me, this was nostalgia for something I'd never actually had or known.
I'd seen elegant train travel in black and white movies,
and read about it in books, but never lived it.
And now that I was here, I found it lived up to every expectation and then some. The linens on the bed were ironed and crisp.
The pastries that had come with our coffee this morning
were delicate and filled with the best apricot preserves
I'd ever tasted.
There was a light scent in the carpeted halls that reminded me of a library.
And when the train rushed through a tunnel and the lights dimmed to a faint golden glow. I felt like I had fallen through the pages of a book,
that I might slide open the door of our compartment
and find a detective twisting his mustache
and eyeing a mysterious heiress who was traveling under a false name.
Maybe, I thought, I should write a novel as we chugged through the countryside. My imagination was clearly running away with me. Might as well put it to good use.
So as we got ready to head to the dining car, I took a little notebook and pen from my luggage and tucked it into my pocket.
The walk from the sleeper car
down to the dining car
passed through a few others.
Generally, they were just passenger coaches
lined with seats.
But one was a sort of lounge with sofas and cocktail tables.
A chess game was being played by two older men,
one with thick glasses
and the other with a salt-and-pepper beard.
I stopped in the passage between cars
and pulled out my notebook.
What are you doing?
Making notes.
I'm writing a mystery novel,
and those two?
I tilted my head toward the chess players behind us.
They're both suspects.
We chuckled as I put my notebook away and passed through into the dining car.
The sun was still an inch above the horizon,
and the fields around us were layered with snow.
Flakes were falling past the windows,
and their motion, plus our own added up to a feeling of being in a snow globe.
And I imagined us sitting on a bookshelf in a library somewhere, freshly shaken as the train circled and circled
the same small bit of track.
We were headed toward the mountains
and would be climbing through the night.
I hoped I'd wake tomorrow
in time for what I guessed would be a pretty spectacular sunrise.
The tables were laid with white tablecloths edged in dark green that matched the upholstery on the bankettes.
We were led to a table
at the far end of the car
where we could see
all of our fellow passengers,
perfect for my research.
And when we sat,
I tucked my notebook under the edge of my plate
for easy reach.
We ordered fancy drinks
that bubbled in old-fashioned glasses.
While we sipped,
we made up stories
about the other diners.
There was a mother and daughter
at a table across from us,
and they seemed pensive
as they spooned up their soup.
Quiet, unassuming.
Nothing to see there, I asked over my glass.
Hmm, that's what they want you to think.
Probably planning a heist of the jewels in the train safe.
I wrote heist, jewels, safe in my notebook.
The snow kept falling as we dined.
Asparagus soup,
arancini with a tangy sauce,
roasted portobello and farro,
and a thin slice of very rich chocolate tart.
At times we forgot to imagine storylines and just got lost staring out at the mountains.
A faint halo of moon behind the clouds and our hands lazily touching across the table.
The rocking of the train was making me drowsy,
and finally we rose and thanked our waiter
and strolled back to the sleeper car.
Our bed had been turned down and the sconces dimmed.
I stood by the window and watched the scenery race by,
thinking about how sweet it would be to pull on my pajamas and climb up into the big, soft bed.
To turn out the lights and feel the sway of the train.
To hear the bells tolling at the crossings in my sleep.
I set my notebook beside the bed,
thinking that I might dream up a whole new story overnight, and wake to find myself in a new world.
The Sleeper car.
From the window,
a broad, white landscape
stretched out under the afternoon sun.
We'd just cut through a small city
and I could still make out
a few tall buildings in the distance.
I loved passing through towns,
watching cars waiting at the crossings,
catching a glimpse of people walking on the city streets with bags slung over their arms,
caught up in their own routines.
Seeing people in this way,
a single frame of their life,
while my own blazed past,
it reminded me that we were all our own main characters.
And I found myself charmed by the faces I saw and the stories that might go with them.
I was still thinking about the last town, the flash of their city square as we sped through. Their tree still lit, and the ice rink in front of it swirling with skaters as the sun began to sink lower
and an orange glow fell on my face.
We were a little more than a day into our journey,
with a couple more yet to go before the last stop,
and I was thoroughly enjoying train travel.
I'd thought I might be bored,
but bored was the last thing I was.
I was relaxed, though.
Compared to driving, following directions, watching for traffic and road closures,
this was positively meditative.
The scenery was always changing, though the pace was steady, and I spent a good deal of time just looking out of the window, either in the mode of travel meant more to us than the destination
itself, it had proved worth it. We had a small stateroom with a wide bed,
a neat little washroom,
and a sofa,
where we'd sipped our coffee this morning.
I'd never been in such a cozy, well-thought-out space as this little room.
It was engineered for comfort, and to fit well within the limited space,
and also with a bit of nostalgia in mind.
And for me, this was nostalgia for something I'd never actually had or known.
I'd seen elegant train travel in black and white movies,
and read about it in books, but never lived it.
And now that I was here, I found it lived up to every expectation, and then some.
The linens on the bed were ironed and crisp.
The pastries that had come with our coffee this morning were delicate and filled with the best apricot preserves I'd ever tasted.
There was a light sent in the carpeted halls that reminded me of a library.
And when the train rushed through a tunnel, and the light dimmed to a faint golden glow,
I felt like I had fallen through the pages of a book,
that I might slide open the door of the compartment and find a detective twisting his mustache
and eyeing a mysterious heiress
who is traveling under a false name.
Maybe, I thought I should write a novel
as we chugged through the countryside
my imagination was
clearly running away with me
might as well
put it to good use
so as we got ready might as well put it to good use.
So as we got ready to head to the dining car,
I took a little notebook and pen from my luggage and tucked it into my pocket.
The walk from the sleeper car down to the dining car passed through a few others.
Generally, they were just passenger coaches lined with seats,
but one was a sort of lounge with sofas and cocktail tables.
A chess game was being played by two older men,
one with thick glasses and the other with a salt and pepper beard.
I stopped in the passage between cars and pulled out my notebook.
What are you doing?
Making notes.
I'm writing a mystery novel.
And those two
I tilted my head
toward the chess players behind us
they're both suspects
we chuckled
as I put my notebook away
and passed through
into the dining car
the sun was still an inch and passed through into the dining car.
The sun was still an inch above the horizon, and the fields around us were layered with snow.
Flakes were falling past the windows,
and their motion plus our own added up to a
feeling of being inside a snow globe.
I imagined us sitting on a bookshelf in a library somewhere,
freshly shaken as the train circled and circled the same small bit of track.
We were headed toward the mountains
and would be climbing through the night.
I hoped I'd wake tomorrow
in time for what I guessed would be
a pretty spectacular sunrise.
The tables were laid with white tablecloths, edged in dark green, that matched the upholstery on the banquets.
We were led to a table at the far end of the car
where we could see all of our fellow passengers,
perfect for my research.
And when we sat, I tucked my notebook under the edge of my plate for easy reach.
We ordered fancy drinks that bubbled in old-fashioned glasses.
While we sipped, we made up stories about the other diners. There was a mother
and daughter at a table across from us, and they seemed pensive as they spooned up their soup.
Quiet, unassuming, nothing to see there, I asked over my glass.
That's what they want you to think.
Probably planning a heist of the jewels in the train safe.
I wrote heist, jewels, safe in the notebook.
The snow kept falling as we dined.
Asparagus soup.
Arancini with a tangy sauce.
Roasted portobello and farro.
And a thin slice of very rich chocolate tart. At times, we forgot to imagine storylines,
and just got lost,
staring out at the mountains,
a faint halo of moon behind the clouds,
and our hands lazily touching across the table.
The rocking of the train was making me drowsy.
And finally we rose and thanked our waiter
and strolled back to the sleeper car.
Our bed had been turned down and the sconces dimmed.
I stood by the window and watched the scenery race by, thinking about how sweet it would
be to pull on my pajamas and climb up into the big, soft bed, to turn out the lights
and feel the sway of the train,
to hear the bells tolling at the crossings in my sleep.
I set my notebook beside the bed,
thinking that I might dream up a whole new story overnight
and wake to find myself in a new world.
Sweet dreams.