Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Winter Getaway Part Two or The Chalet

Episode Date: January 9, 2023

Our story tonight is called Winter Getaway Part Two or The Chalet and it’s a story about an abundance of time to do nothing with. It’s also about a steaming bathtub, catching a moment with all of your senses, and a way to say I love you. Our charitable donation this week goes to https://bookaid.org.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim we're excited to do something new in 2023 on the podcast we'll be donating to a different charity with every single episode

your support and that includes sharing the show with others rating and reviewing and listening to ads. Helps us to do that. So thank you. This week, in honor of the protagonist of our story, the bookshop owner, we're donating to BookAid.org, who is helping to make, quote,

a world where everyone has access to books that will enrich, improve, and change their lives. Find a link to them in the show notes. Now, your brain needs a place to rest. A story with just enough in it to carry you off to dreamland, but not to keep you up. And that's what I specialize in. So just follow along with the sound of my voice. And know that we are, right now, training your brain to have a reliable response.

And that it will only improve with time and practice. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a bit slower on the second read-through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn the story right back on or just think through any detail from the story that you can remember. Now, lights out campers.

Find the right pillow, get into your favorite sleeping position, and let your whole body relax. Whatever today was like, is what today was like. It's over now and there's nothing left to do but rest. Take a slow breath in through your nose and sigh it out. Again, all the way in and out with sound. Good. Our story tonight is called Winter Getaway Part 2, or The Chalet. And it's a story about an abundance of time to do nothing with. It's also about a steaming bathtub, catching a moment with all of your senses, and a way to say I love you. Winter Getaway, Part 2, or The Chalet

For the first day or two, I didn't leave my little cabin. I went to bed early and slept late. It felt so wonderful and absolutely necessary. When I finally got out of bed in the mornings, I'd turn on the gas fireplace and brew a pot of coffee and climb right back into bed with a cup. Sometimes I read.

Sometimes I just stared out the front window and looked at the mountain. Chef kept my little kitchenette stocked with pastries and fruit for breakfast, which, again, I ate in bed. I took long, steaming hot baths in the clawfoot tub. I listened to music and read. When I got hungry, I ordered room service, which was brought in covered dishes, all the way from the hotel up the funicular and to my door.

I changed from one pair of pajamas into another and just enjoyed the quiet and solitude. My friend who'd invited me here, the chef who'd been sending down pastries from their kitchen, had given me space, knowing that I needed rest more than company.

They'd invited me for dinner when I was up to it, or a snowshoe along some of the gentler paths. What a gift friends like that are. The kind that you don't have to explain yourself to, who take you as you are, and want your own well-being as much as you do. It reminded me of the way Italians say, I love you. They have a romantic way and a platonic way of expressing it.

The platonic way simply said, I want you to be well. Ti voglio bene. Chef wanted me to be well. And it felt very good to be loved by a friend like that. Today, I had an urge to finally step out of my little sanctuary and explore a bit. I wasn't a skier, though I'd enjoyed watching the brave souls on the mountain, cutting through the fresh powder each day. I thought today I might prefer to bundle up and take the funicular down to the hotel. Poke around through their shops and lobby and see if Chef would make me a tasty dinner in their restaurant. The resort made its own fresh snow each day to make the skiing and snowboarding as good as it could be. But Mother Nature had been no slouch in that department either.

There was a solid foot and a half on the ground around my cabin, and more falling by the minute. I layered on my thermals, powder pants, heavy coat, and boots, and stepped out the door. The funicular traveled up and down the mountains every few minutes so I only had to wait a minute on the platform and while I did I looked across the slopes and saw more cabins

and groves of trees on the other side. People were riding ski lifts up into the sky, their skis dangling in the air, and I thought the whole endeavor must be exhilarating. Just standing here in the cold air, I felt energized and awake in a way I hadn't in quite a while. The funicular arrived in front of me, and I realized that the tracks didn't stop at my little platform. They went further up the mountain, and I suddenly decided I wanted to go up

rather than down. I stepped inside and sat down on a cushioned bench. I'd always wanted to take one of those winter train trips where the tracks wind through snowy landscapes while tea is served in fancy cups in the dining car.

And this was close. It was only a few minutes' ride up the mountain. But it was an extraordinary view, and I had the presence of mind to really take it all in. Sometimes life happened so fast, I felt like I missed the details. And maybe this was one of the reasons I loved to read. I could take in each scene as slowly as I liked, reread favorite passages, change moods by flipping to a different chapter.

Now I realized I was in a beautiful verse that I would want to re-read. So I kept my eyes open. I noticed the way the snowflakes landed on the window, how there was a split second while they were intact, and I could see their tiny, symmetrical patterns before they seemed to go out of focus. They turned blurry and melted and were gone. I caught my own reflection in the glass and looked through it to the sloping land all around me.

I smiled at that. Don't we often look through ourselves when we look out, a layer of self imperceptibly shading the view? The funicular bumped to a stop. The doors slid open, and the true, unimpeded view of the mountains was even sweeter. I stepped out to find a building with broad, overhanging eaves and a tall stone chimney, wood smoke rising from it. I'd felt a few times here that I was in a fairy tale, and this seemed to cement the idea.

Here was a real-life chalet, and I wondered if the funicular had somehow delivered me in a split second to the Alps. There was a broad stone patio wrapping around the chalet, a fire pit roaring in the center, and small tables with a few bundled-up guests sitting here and there. I wandered up to the door and stepped through. I hadn't felt cold, but my cheeks burned as the warm air circled around me.

The place was a long, open room with a giant fireplace along one wall. Deep chairs were pulled up around it, and people were sitting with drinks in their hands, looking out the floor to ceiling windows at the slopes. Across from the fire was a long bar when I could hear the hiss of an espresso machine. I unsnapped the neck of my coat and pulled away my scarf.

As I stepped up to the bar, I thought I might want to stay a while. I asked the bartender if they had hot tea, and she stepped away for a moment and brought back a large wicker basket, which she set before me as she opened it. It was divided into 20 or more little cubbies, each with a canister of loose leaf tea nestled inside. I practically clapped my hands in excitement as I read the labels. Mint in the winter always felt like a natural choice, and I was reaching for it when the bartender leaned in and tapped her finger against a different flavor. I read the label. Orange blossoms, rose petals, and silver needle tea.

You think, I said. She just nodded and watched and waited for me to nod back. When I did, she smiled and swept the box away to set me up with a pot and a cup. I thought for a moment that I wished I'd brought my book, but maybe this was even better. I'd take in every detail my senses could show me, as if I were writing this moment down in a story. Winter Getaway, Part 2, or The Chalet

For the first day or two, I didn't leave my cabin. I went to bed early and slept late. It felt so wonderful and absolutely necessary. When I finally got out of bed in the mornings, I'd turn on the gas fireplace and brew a pot of coffee and climb right back into bed with a cup. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I just stared out the front window and looked at the mountain.

Chef kept my little kitchenette stocked with pastries and fruit for breakfast, which, again, I ate in bed. I took long, steaming hot baths in the clawfoot tub. I listened to music and read. When I got hungry, I ordered room service, which was brought in covered dishes all the way from the hotel and just enjoyed the quiet and the solitude. My friend who'd invited me here, the chef who'd been sending up the pastries from their kitchen, had given me space,

knowing that I needed rest more than I needed company. They'd invited me for dinner when I was up to it, or a snowshoe along some what a gift friends like that are. The kind that you don't have to explain yourself to. Who take you as you are and want your well-being as much as you do. It reminded me of the way simply said, I want you to be well. Ti voglio bene. Chef wanted me to be well.

And it felt very good to be loved by a friend like that. Today, I had an urge to finally step out of my little sanctuary and explore a bit. I wasn't a skier, though I'd enjoyed watching the brave souls on the mountain cutting through the fresh powder each day. I thought today I might prefer to bundle up and take the funicular

down to the hotel, poke through their shops and lobby, and see if Chef would make me a tasty dinner in their restaurant. The resort made its own fresh snow each day to make the skiing and snowboarding as good as it could be, but Mother Nature had been no slouch in that department either. There was a solid foot and a half on the ground around my cabin, and more falling by the minute. I layered on my thermals,

powder pants, heavy coat and boots, and stepped out the door. The funicular traveled up and down the mountain every few minutes, so I only had to wait a minute on the platform. And while I did, I looked across the slopes and saw more cabins and groves of trees on the other side. People were riding ski lifts up into the sky. Their skis dangling in the air. And I thought the whole endeavor must be exhilarating. Just standing here in the cold air, I felt energized and awake in a way I hadn't in quite a while.

The funicular arrived in front of me, and I realized that the tracks didn't stop at my little platform. They went farther up the mountain, and I suddenly realized I wanted to go up rather than down. I stepped inside and sat down on a cushioned bench. I've always wanted to take one of those winter train trips where the tracks wind through snowy landscapes while tea is served in fancy cups in the dining car. This was close. It was only a few minutes' ride up the mountain, but it was an extraordinary view,

and I had the presence of mind to really take it all in. Sometimes, life happened so fast. I felt like I missed the details. And maybe this was one of the reasons I loved to read. I could take in each scene as slowly as I liked, re-read favorite passages, change moods by flipping to a different chapter. Now I realized I was in a beautiful verse.

I would want to reread. So I kept my eyes open. I noticed the way the snowflakes landed on the window, how there was a split second while they were intact, and I could see their tiny symmetrical patterns before they seemed to go out of focus. They turned blurry and melted and were gone. I caught my own reflection in the glass and looked through it to the sloping land all around me. I smiled at that. Don't we often look through ourselves

when we look out a layer of self imperceptibly shading the view the funicular bumped to a stop, the doors slid open, and the true, unimpeded view of the mountain was even sweeter. I stepped out to find a building with broad, overhanging eaves and a tall stone chimney, wood smoke rising from it.

I'd felt a few times here that I was in a fairy tale, and this wondered if the funicular had somehow delivered me in a split second to the Alps. There was a broad stone patio wrapped around the chalet, a fire pit roaring in the center, and small tables with a few bundled-up guests sitting here and there. I wandered up to the door and stepped through. I hadn't felt cold, but my cheeks burned as the warm air circled around me. The place was a long, open room with a giant fireplace along one wall. Deep chairs were pulled up around it, and people were sitting with drinks in their hands, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the slopes. Across from the fire was a long bar, and I could hear the hiss of an espresso machine.

I unsnapped the neck of my coat and pulled away my scarf as I stepped up to the bar. I thought I might want to stay a while. I asked the bartender if they had hot tea, and she stepped away for a moment and brought back a large wicker basket, which she set before me as she opened it. It was divided into twenty or more little cubbies, each with a canister of loose-leaf tea nestled inside. I practically clapped my hands in excitement as I read the labels. Mint in the winter always felt like a natural choice. And I was reaching for it

when the bartender leaned in and tapped her finger against a different flavor. I read the label. Orange blossoms, rose petals, and silver needle tea. You think? I said. She just nodded. And watched. And waited for me to nod back. When I did, she smiled.

And swept the box away. To set me up with a pot and cup. I thought for a moment that I wished I'd brought my book, but maybe this was even better. I'd take in every detail my senses could show me, as if I were writing this moment down in a story. Sweet dreams.