Growing up, my family’s vacations involved a lot of people, a lot of luggage, a lot of hours in the car, and some rather incongruous songs.

As we carved out spaces for our legs and feet, shifted pillows, blankets, and bags around to make little nests for ourselves, and set off toward the highway, my dad would belt out “Gloom, despair, and agony on me / Deep, dark depression, excessive misery / If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all / Gloom, despair, and agony on me!” After that uplifting ditty, he’d move on to Leonard Cohen’s “Oh please, don’t pass me by,” and “Passing Through.” These, he would belt out at the top of his voice, filling the car with depressing lyrics but delivering those lyrics in the most jovial way.

Dad got a Cohen CD for his birthday this year, so the rest of us heard to original versions of those songs for the first time. And you know what? They sounded happy, lyrics notwithstanding. They sounded like vacation. They sounded like my legs should be wedged in among rolled up sleeping bags and my head should be resting against the car window.