Fall fast asleep with this cozy bedtime story for grown-ups.
You're listening to Rainy Autumn in Quebec City.
A dreamy escape to Old Quebec.
At the most colorful time of year.
Wander beneath an umbrella through the French-speaking heart of the historic Canadian city,
Where centuries-old stone buildings line narrow cobblestone streets,
And fiery scarlet,
Cinnamon brown,
Mahogany,
And saffron gold leaves glow against a silvery mist.
Step into warmly lit shops and cafes.
Reveling in their contrast to the outdoors.
Here you can wander without worrying where the next street may lead and cross paths with strangers whose stories briefly become part of your own.
And when evening arrives,
Retreat to a luxurious old world flat high above the glistening streets where a fire burns,
Candlelight flickers,
And the autumn rain lulls you into a deep sleep.
You It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle and I hope you'll think of my voice as a trusted friend.
Meeting you at the bookend of another day that you have finally made it through.
This is your unique journey,
So change any detail that suits you.
Or simply follow my words.
As your imagination carries you somewhere new Sleep may come whenever it arrives.
So settle into the sanctuary of your room.
Feel the support beneath you.
Open your mouth and let out a long sigh.
Casting off anything you no longer need to carry into sleep.
Draw a fresh breath through your nose.
Imagining the cool rain-washed air of autumn filling your space.
Perhaps you yawn at the top of your breath before releasing another satisfying sigh.
Finding the rhythm that feels right for you.
As I count us down.
Bye A faint autumn mist meets your skin.
Carrying the mineral scent of rain against old stone and the decaying sweetness of fallen maple leaves.
Your forehead and temples smooth.
Your eyes grow heavier.
And your cheeks and jaw soften in its gentle caress.
Or light spills like honey through the windows of little shops and cafes and reflects in the puddles The shimmering glow brings warmth to your neck and shoulders.
Before traveling down your arms.
Through your wrists and palms.
All the way to your fingertips Your hands rest at your sides or on your belly with nothing more to carry.
3 Envision your walls becoming like the old stone walls of Quebec City.
Fortress protecting you.
So you may withdraw from the world.
Feel that same steady support through your chest and ribs,
Your belly,
Your upper and lower back.
Flowing slowly down the length of your spine.
Another sigh allows you to sink more deeply into the softness beneath you.
Two Your hips grow heavier and release followed by your thighs and knees,
Your calves and ankles.
Surrendering their weight to all that supports you.
One.
A sense of ease finds your heels,
Arches,
Soles and toes until your entire body takes on the cozy energy of the season.
From head to toe.
Your breath flows.
Thoughts come and go.
On the safety of your sanctuary.
Your mental vacation to Old Quebec begins now.
There is a certain freedom.
And arriving somewhere.
Nobody knows your name.
Stepping outside the story you tell every day.
And getting away from stories told about you.
It probably shouldn't matter much anyway.
And simply observing.
The thousands of other lives unfolding around you.
You may become a stranger behind someone's photograph.
Encouraging smile beneath a rain-soaked awning.
Our random listening ear.
That helps someone feel less alone.
All the while helping you feel connected.
Something beyond yourself.
A city can make you feel part of humanity.
While keeping your anonymity.
Drifting through spaces like a phantom.
Emerging as a main character,
Whenever you choose.
And there is comfort.
And remembering how many lives are being lived alongside your own.
Each filled with moments.
Come and go as autumn leaves in the rain.
The morning forecasts were determined to scare everyone in Quebec City from venturing out into the rain.
Of course.
Forecasts can be hit or miss.
And on this gray autumn day,
It certainly was more of a miss.
As you step out to explore the capital.
Of the French-speaking Canadian province of Quebec.
You walk with a certain knowing an intuitive grasp.
Today will be the perfect moody day.
To take in the romantic cobblestone streets.
And historic splendors.
A silver mist hangs in the cool air.
Vine or not.
You feel only an occasional drop.
Against your chief.
You open your clear bubble umbrella anyway.
And step into an autumn day so colorful that the gray sky becomes the perfect quiet canvas for every maple leaf on display.
Garnet and crimson leaves flare against glistening limestone.
Persimmon and copper.
Mingle with Banana Yellow.
While mahogany leaves cling to black branches.
Dappled in raindrops.
Listen and refract the muted light.
Those that have been freed from the branches.
By the crisp breeze.
Now lie flattened against the slick sidewalk.
Like melting pieces of jewel-toned confetti.
Old Quebec offers a less seen version of Canada.
Creating moments when another continent seems much closer.
French drifts from conversations beneath umbrellas and awnings.
Through taxi doors as they open and close.
The language is a charming part of the atmosphere.
Utterances.
Cordial conversations.
Of those trying to make the best of the morning,
Join the sloshing of wet shoes to careful footsteps on wet cobbles,
Try to avoid the puddles that cars carelessly splash through.
Occasionally.
The distant peal of a church bell.
Adds a musicality to your walk without a plan.
More than four centuries have shaped the old city.
Each step.
And new observations.
Reveals more in energy.
In any history lesson.
There's a sense of reverence and permanence.
Witchness in the walls and gates.
Still embrace its historic heart.
And steep roofs and dormer windows.
Old stone homes with great chimneys.
Church spires rising above autumn trees.
And narrow lanes.
Formed well before cars were even a dream.
There is a heartwarming European romance to it all.
And yet it belongs completely to this place.
Perched above the St.
Lawrence River.
In a region that is familiar with the most blustery,
Frigid winters.
Now despite the mist and autumn chill.
Perhaps because of it.
You feel more than comfortable roaming in your rain slicker and waterproof Chelsea boots lined with flannels.
A scarf loosely wraps around your neck.
Belt around your jacket.
Hugging you with comforting compression.
Your pants are soft as well.
Allowing for comfort in walking for as long as curiosity leads you into the city's wonders.
You pass beneath one of the old gates.
Where history immediately collides with ordinary life.
A young college student hurries past.
Carrying two coffees.
Her raven hair wild in the breeze.
Protected only by a burgundy velvet baker's cap.
Delivery truck inches along the narrow street.
And a little dog in a yellow raincoat.
Plants all four paws against the pavement in protest.
An older lady tries to coax him along with a treat.
Yet little Oscar remains quite unconvinced.
But no destination could justify wading to his furry ankles through all these puddles.
You smile as you pass.
Enjoying the anonymity.
Being somewhere,
Nobody knows what you usually do at this hour.
But responsibilities wait at home.
Or what has been occupying your thoughts lately.
On this holiday.
You are simply the person beneath an umbrella.
Deciding which direction looks most inviting.
A warm draught.
Carrying the comforting scent of buttery pastries,
Espresso and almond paste makes the first decision for you.
The bakery window glows beside the street.
Its glass faintly fogged by the warmth within.
You close your umbrella before stepping inside.
As a brass bell gives a delicate ring above the door.
Warmth gathers immediately around your cool cheeks.
As you are met with soothing Brazilian music.
And the sound of cappuccinos being made.
Beyond the curved glass counter is an incredible variety of baked treats.
Each representing a piece of autumn.
Of space.
Apple slices and pumpkins.
Conversation moves easily.
In a variety of languages as she waits.
And rather than trying to understand every word.
You get lost in the melody of each lilt.
And animated words.
Lens at the counter.
You select something that will forever be a taste.
Of this early morning in the old town.
A sent memory that always brings you back here.
You settle by the window and watch the morning unfold.
And only after you finished your warm drink and bite.
Does the warmth become almost stifling?
So you return outdoors welcoming the cool rain-washed air against your flushed cheeks.
The mist has grown slightly thicker.
Collecting in prismatic beads along your clear umbrella.
As you wander toward.
A great silhouette.
Of Chateau Frontenac.
Its turrets and steep copper roofs.
Eyes over the old city like a storybook.
More fantastical through the silver air.
Surrounded by the golden and scarlet trees.
Stories reveal themselves.
In brief interactions.
As you come upon the long wooden boardwalk of Dufferin Terrace.
The steely,
Blue-gray St.
Lawrence River stretches into the gray oblivion of storm clouds.
As the mist transforms to a light sprinkle.
Two petite women dressed in long trench coats.
Struggled to capture a photo of themselves along the river.
And the rising beauty of Chateau Frontenac.
Laughing to themselves about the absurdity of their failed attempts.
Their phone is the only reminder.
But you are in this era.
The red facade of the castle beyond,
Otherwise makes you feel transported to the 19th century.
You approach and their faces brighten when you offer to take their photo.
Their friendship has spanned over 60 years.
And they have been traveling for a month.
Starting their journey in Vermont.
Experiencing Canada for the first time.
You frame the river and chateau behind them.
As you take one picture,
Then another,
And one more when a gust catches their violet and burgundy paisley scarves and makes them laugh at exactly the same time.
The single snap.
Perfectly captures their chemistry and shared history.
In one beautiful image which will become their favorite of this entire journey.
And while you don't appear in the photograph.
They may never remember who took for this brief moment in time.
You were part of their story.
Standing behind a memory.
That will forever linger with them.
In a few months time.
When the frigid winter wind howls off the river.
The snow brings a season-long chance to ride down a steep slide in a toboggan.
A joyous winter adventure.
That first began in the late 1800s.
No matter the weather,
Each season has always brought something to look forward to in Quebec City.
At the edge of Dufferin Terrace.
You come to the funicular.
Little Railway travels directly down the steep cliffside to Lower Town.
Waiting on the sloping tracks is its distinctive little car.
Appearing as a small glass room tipped toward the river with a turquoise roof and broad windows wrapping around its sides.
Step inside.
The floor and cabin.
Have been designed for the dramatic angle of the hillside.
Find a place beside the glass.
The car begins its short descent.
Gliding down the rails at a 45-degree angle as the rooftops of Lower Town seemed to rise toward you.
Through rain speckled windows.
You can see the St.
Lawrence beyond the buildings.
Below.
Slate and brightly painted roofs,
Old stone walls,
Chimneys and narrow streets gradually sharpen into view.
Child presses close to the glass.
To watch it all approach.
Her breath fogging the window.
Your excitement is palpable as this is her first ride in a funicular.
The car soon eases into the lower station.
And you step out onto the cobblestone streets of Petit Champlain.
You explore each lane.
Shop signs hang from ornate brackets.
Window boxes hold the last mums of the season.
Merlot-hued leaves collect against doorsteps before swirling around the feet.
Of people carrying umbrellas.
A four-year-old boy in shiny red rain boots and a matching slicker.
Discovers a puddle and lands squarely in the middle with both feet.
Sending water flying as his parents left before attempting to establish some kind of order.
Little puddles only,
You understand from the exchange.
Immediately turns the wall.
Into the complicated task.
Of determining what qualifies as little.
One shallow puddle receives approval.
Another requires a cautious test,
The toe of one red boot.
While the third appears to occupy a legally questionable middle ground.
The boy yearns to race through the deep ponding along the sidewalk.
Both parents give simultaneous uh-uh.
And it takes every ounce of willpower for the young boy to abide.
You continue past them,
Grinning.
Seriousness of the investigation,
Making the world feel so much lighter.
A few doors down.
You step into a small artisan shop.
Leaving your umbrella among a colorful gathering.
In an antique urn by the entrance.
Shelves hold pottery and candles,
Woolens,
Jewelry,
Prints,
And beautiful objects made here in the city.
But your hand settles upon a woven throw deep wine,
Moss green,
And muted gold.
Substantial enough to hold warmth.
And incredibly soft beneath your fingertips.
You imagine it across your lap later.
While rain falls against the windows.
Decide it belongs to you.
A memento of this autumn day.
The shopkeeper folds it carefully.
And ties it with a ribbon before placing it in a bag.
He wishes you a bonne journée and you return to the October mist,
Carrying something from the city with you.
More stories reveal themselves around you.
And with every new tail.
You lose the normal,
Swirling thoughts.
That have become repetitive.
And now too familiar.
To make room for something new.
An older gentleman in his corduroy blazer passes with an enormous bouquet.
Beneath an umbrella,
Much too small for both flowers and person.
And eagerly awaits a woman coming to meet him.
Both of their eyes lighting up when they connect.
Laughter in the rain.
Smiles under awnings.
Puddles splashing.
Warm invitations from shops and cafes.
Give the empowering feeling.
Tweet aside,
How to weather the weather.
In all its uncontrollable forms.
One young woman in an oversized sweatshirt and faded jeans.
Isn't having the best day.
And doesn't conceal her grief.
The rain is an easy backdrop.
Give in to our sadness.
Even that is beautiful.
The freedom to cry on the street.
Don't feel less alone for a moment.
To know you are safe.
To be your authentic self.
On these rain-slicked,
Cobbled lanes.
At some point,
Many souls may have shed a tear or two.
As you pass,
You offer the smallest smile,
Most more acknowledgement than expression.
This fleeting moment offers a sense of connection.
And this woman somehow.
Feels for the first time today.
Is going to get better.
Late afternoon arrives.
And the first hint of the darkening sky.
It's the only indication.
Time has passed and the day is coming to a close.
Place Royale appears around another turn.
Its old stone buildings gathering around the square.
The rain begins to fall harder.
Like an old European village.
The building stands shoulder to shoulder in pale limestone and weathered stucco.
Rising beneath.
Steeply pitched roofs.
Punctuated by dormer windows.
And all chimneys.
Multi-paint windows glow against the gray afternoon while painted wooden doors and little ledges darkened by rain.
Give each facade its own character.
People have crossed through these cobbled streets for centuries.
Carrying bread,
Letters,
Flowers,
Worries,
Children,
Secrets,
Good news and bad news.
Ducking in from the blustering winds of January.
In the gray days like today.
By the time you step into a little bistro.
The blue hour has settled over Quebec City.
Turning the rain beyond the windows.
Deep marine blue.
While the room glows with a richness,
Wildflower honey and antique brass.
Candlelight gathers in the folds of velvet-plum banquettes.
Shimmers in the glasses and neighboring tables.
Conversation rises and falls.
Beneath a clink of silverware.
The music from a jazz trio in the mirrored corner.
A bowl of hot soup arrives first.
And you lean into the fragrant steam.
For taking the first spoonful.
Feeling its warmth travel through you.
Followed by a savory autumnal meal.
It is hearty and satisfying.
After an afternoon spent wandering in the rain.
For a little while.
There's nowhere else to be but here.
Surrounded by strangers.
Sharing the simple pleasure of warmth,
Good food and shelter from the rain.
And you may choose to engage in new connections.
Just revel in the absolute peace and joy.
Being in your own company.
Answering to only your whims and desires.
You rise,
Gathering your bag and umbrellas.
Bundling for the walk back to your flat.
The gray sky is now a deep moody blue.
The silver fog hovering over the cobblestones.
Straight lamps cast a buttery marigold glow across the wet stone.
Crimson leaves deepen toward garnet.
While flashes of orange and tarnished gold appear beneath the shop lights.
You catch your reflection in a puddle.
All the beauty around you.
Rippling with each new drop of rain.
Your extraordinary day in Quebec City.
Someone else's perfectly ordinary autumn evening.
And somehow.
What makes you love it even more?
You made the magic happen.
By simply taking the time to observe it.
A narrow five-story stone dwelling.
Rises elegantly from the cobblestones.
Its old world facade.
Softened by rows of charming royal blue shutters.
A matching blue door tucked beneath the gracefully curved stone arch.
You reach for your key.
The log turns with a satisfying click.
You ascend a flight of stairs.
That creak and welcome you.
The railing the same royal blue.
Limestone walls reflecting the honeyed light of the sconces.
You unlock the next door.
To be enveloped in the warm dry air of a flat that seems to hold all the romance of old Quebec.
Within its walls.
Dark parquet floors Gleam beneath high ceilings.
Edged and delicate plasterwork.
While an emerald velvet sofa rests beside the tall windows.
And wine-colored armchairs.
Gather around a marble fireplace.
Beneath an enormous gilt mirror.
You hang your damp coat near the door.
Remove your shoes.
Slipping your feet into velvet slippers before freeing the chenille blanket you chose earlier from its ribbon.
You light the fire and a few candles around the room.
And soon their flickering glow catches in the crystal chandelier.
Dances across the old glass.
As rain begins tapping more insistently against the windows.
Heavy velvet drapes frame the deep window alcoves.
From one,
You look across the steep rooftops of the old city.
Where chimneys disappear and reappear behind the thickening rain.
Water streams over wet slate and copper.
Gathering along gutters.
And rushing on to the cobblestones below.
The city lights blur into streaks of gold.
Through the rain-streaked glass.
There is luxury here.
But none of it feels new or ostentatious.
It is the elegance of beautiful things that have lasted.
Been cared for.
Thick stone walls keeping out the autumn chills.
The fire you have lit yourself.
As the rain steadily accumulates outside.
Nothing asks to be admired from a distance Everything invites you closer.
Dazzlery rushes against tall windows such sudden force to turn toward the sounds.
You watch the rivulets race along the old stone streets.
The city transforms into an impressionist blur of ink blue,
Graphite,
Topaz,
And butterscotch.
With the lingering chill of the damp day still in your bones.
You yearn for a long soak in warm water.
You make your way to an ivory tiled bathroom where a deep clawfoot tub awaits you.
Within minutes.
Steam curls through the room.
As you sink beneath hot water.
Scented faintly with fig and bergamot soap.
Rain drums against the window.
While candlelight liquors across the tile.
And warmth finds the muscles.
Carried you through the city.
Settling into your shoulders and back.
Your hips and legs all the way to your feet.
You stay until you are worn through to your bones.
Or wrapping yourself in a thick towel.
Changing into silky pajamas.
The bedroom waits beyond another set.
Towering double doors.
The space is dominated by a magnificent upholstered bed.
Layered with crisp white sheen.
An ivory duvet.
European Pillow and a velvet coverlet the color of dark sapphire.
You bring your new blanket along.
Draping it over the bed as well.
Across Old Quebec,
Windows glow through the rain.
One by one.
The lights begin to dim.
Disappear completely.
Your mind drifts through all the encounters of the day.
Two women from Dufferin Terrace.
Maybe looking for their photographs right now.
Child in red boots.
May have successfully negotiated one big puddle and the young woman has found solace being able to close the door completely on our difficult day.
Their stories continue.
After they disappeared from yours.
Just as yours has continued.
After you disappeared from theirs.
There are thousands upon thousands of lives.
And holding around you.
Without requiring anything from you.
Rather than making you feel small.
Thought makes the world.
A wonderfully spacious you don't have to hold all of it.
You do not even have to hold your own story.
For the rest of the night.
Flying beneath the covers feel the mattress receive full weight of your tired body.
The duvet and blanket.
Press delightfully upon you.
For this one autumn night.
His historic flat belongs to you.
Your sanctuary from the cold persistent rain you reach toward the lamp.
Turn it off.
The room becomes a dreamy indigo.
The rain continues against the window.
Steady and abundant.
Washing over rooftops and spires.
And running along cobblestones.
That have carried centuries of footsteps.
It is the song that leads you to the slumber you so very much yearn for.
And after a day well spent.
You welcome it.
Surrender completely.
Finding serenity.
Finding connection.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
