Alarms. Surprises.

Let down and hanging around. Crushed like a bug in the ground.

For the first time in over 100 weeks, there was no letter last Monday morning.

I was in Copenhagen, with my daughter, expecting to attend the first two of four scheduled Radiohead concerts in the city. It was supposed to be a memory we would share forever.

Fate had other plans. We were in the merchandise line at the venue on the afternoon of the show when my phone pinged with a notification that I had to read a few times to process. That night’s show, and the next as well, unceremoniously postponed for two weeks (translation for those traveling from afar with return tickets booked: cancelled) due to a throat infection impacting lead singer Thom Yorke.

Traveling overseas for a concert is a risk, but a risk I thought worth taking. I was planning for this letter to write about the joy of attending these shows. About the value of sharing special experiences with loved ones. Of taking time away from the screens and spreadsheets, and spending those precious savings in irresponsible and foolish ways to create the memories that shape our lives.

It will be a memory. Just not the kind we were expecting.

So many things fell into place to get us here: winning the ticket lottery allocation. Scoring amazing seats. Travel dates lining up. It was hard to think anything other than this experience was meant to be.

And now it seems like some massive cosmic joke.

There’s a heaviness to the disappointment felt when an investment of time and money leaves you empty handed. Sometimes there’s no lesson to learn. Nothing to take away. The only thing you can do is try to convince yourself that there will be another chance. Hopefully.

“No alarms and no surprises, please”

In the classic song No Surprises, Thom sings “Such a pretty house, and such a pretty garden,” while his backing track wails “Get me out of here!” Chills.

Over time I’ve come to realize that I’m not sure whether the song’s protagonist is trapped in this perfect life that has become his prison, or whether he’s an overwhelmed man asking for a reprieve.

The “pretty house and pretty garden” version of this story is the two of us enjoying this show and heading back home in a glow of post-show bliss. The reality is messier. I truly wish there was no alarm and no surprise last Monday. But maybe someday it will turn into a better story.

After the show cancellation several Copenhagen bars were filled with shell-shocked Radiohead fans connecting over their shared disappointment. I met a few people, notably a fellow Canadian named Jill. We talked about what brought us there. I told her how disappointed my daughter was. And how I was crushed to have been robbed of the chance to share this experience with her. Jill reminded me how lucky we were to be in Copenhagen, having had the opportunity to miss out on the chance to see the world’s greatest living rock band play live. How the experience, however imperfect, was perfect in its own way. In the way that a father took his daughter across the ocean to share a special experience with her.

As perfect as that life of no alarms and no surprises might seem, it can trap us into the perception of what perfect is supposed to be. We didn’t see the show we travelled across the ocean for. I watched my daughter cry in the parking lot of the Royal Arena on a cold and cloudy Scandinavian winter day. I felt the weight of crushed expectations.

But then I met some kindred spirits from around the world over a few drinks. I remembered how lucky we were to even be in a position to be able to experience that disappointment. And I know that if we do finally get to see Radiohead together, it will mean that much more to us. And just maybe the tears will be tears of joy.

“It’s gonna be a glorious day. I feel my luck could change.”