Hopefully you’re familiar with that title of an anthem song about New York City that was written and made famous by Billy Joel. We achieved this euphoric condition last week with four glorious days there.

We took Amtrak as usual on Wednesday, arriving in plenty of time to get squared away in the Luxury Collection Hotel (formerly the Conrad), one of our favorites well-located on West 54^th Street. The weather was perfect. We dined at PJ Clarke’s across the street from Lincoln Center, and walked there to see New York City Ballet perform Apollo, Ballo della Regina, Tschaikovsky Pas de Deux, and, finally, Chaconne. The dancing was, as always, perfectly performed. We weren’t thrilled by Apollo, but the ballerinas were exceptional. Another night to remember.

The next night we traveled out Broadway to Smoke, the post-pandemic remodeled version, where Cyrus Chestnut was performing. We’ve seen Cyrus many times, perhaps too many, but his playing still resonates, and his trio is always “on.” One odd but serendipitous thing was that we chose our seats from the online seat map that showed we would be seated immediately behind Cyrus and could thus follow his hands on the keyboard. But it turned out that the map was inaccurate, and we were going to be jammed in the back corner in an uncomfortably tight space.

As it happened a couple seated a few tables forward of the bandstand overheard our exchange with the maître d’. They told her that the couple who were to join them had come down with COVID and would not be present, so would we like to join them? [Finally, COVID fortuitously did something good for us.] We moved to their table and discovered two delightful New Yorkers who loved jazz as much as we do and have seen pretty much everyone we have. The man was a retired professor; his wife was a neuro-psychologist. They were most interesting and engaging companions for the evening.

The Cyrus Chestnut trio performed as expected and were applauded by a packed house of jazz enthusiasts.

The third night we traveled to the Winter Garden Theater that sits in the center of Times Square. Winter Garden dates to 1911 (remodeled in 1922) and while it is well-worn, the seats were surprisingly roomy. We were there to see Good Night, and Good Luck, starring George Clooney. We snagged our tickets early and avoided paying the current extremely high prices. In the event, it would have been worth almost any amount. Clooney’s acting was what you would expect, such that you tended to forget he was not Edward R. Murrow reincarnated.

The show tracked the movie very closely … except for the ending. I will not spoil it by revealing the ending here. Suffice to say, I have seen many plays over my long years and never was I stunned and moved by an ending like this one. Hopefully, you will see this play and experience it for yourself.

Incidentally, because of the way the play is staged, with normal action and dialogue on stage combined with screens of Joe McCarthy and others, it doesn’t much matter where you sit. You can see and hear just fine. Just be ready for the ending. I am still reeling.

The final night of our New York experience arrived with a challenging weather forecast but the details said it would clear by the time to line up (seats at Birdland are first come-first seated; there is always a line outside well before the doors open). We were meeting a New York friend (and my wife’s fellow hula dancer from the local dance group) who also loves the music and joins us for these shows when she is not traveling the world.

As our Lyft crept down West 44^th Street in the usual stop-and-stop traffic, and we were 100 feet from the club, the clouds suddenly dropped their water (all of it) in an overwhelming deluge, zero to a hundred in one second. When we finally reached the club, the rain had intensified; our driver offered to pull over and let us stay in his car until the rain let up (tell me again about those rude New Yorkers). Seeing our friend being drenched in the rear of the line, we declined the offer, departed the car, and were promptly soaked. My wife approached the club people managing the line, and we were immediately admitted to the club. This led to everyone being admitted well before the official “doors” time (see prior parentheses).

The trio this night was led by Emmet Cohen at the piano, with Phillip Norris on bass, and Joe Farnsworth on drums. We had seen a different group under Cohen’s leadership on the first post-pandemic night of jazz at Birdland, so we didn’t know what to expect. We had thought Cohen was great that night, but part of the vibe was excitement that “jazz was back!”

There was no reason for concern. The band was “on” from the first note. And Joe Farnsworth put on a class in drum technique accentuated by his constant change of facial expressions as he and Cohen communicated in that mysterious way that jazz musicians have. Over my life of 150 years, I have had the pleasure of seeing many great jazz drummers, including the magical Eric Harland and Billy Kilson. Farnsworth left no room between him and the best. I told him so after the performance and he seemed genuinely delighted at the praise. I also spoke briefly with Norris who was open and welcoming to my approach.

One thing about Cohen and his ensemble – they seemed always to be having fun, and that vibe translated through the music to the audience. It was an extraordinary performance that left us exhilarated and spent when it was over. They played for almost an hour and a half, long by jazz group standards, and left nothing on the table. Halfway through, my wife leaned over and whispered to me, “this is an amazing show.” Indeed, it was.

Thus, ended our New York State of Mind for this trip, memorable in every way. We still talk about the play, something I will never forget. There is no place on earth like New York City. We miss it every day. I suspect that once you achieve that New York State of Mind, it never leaves you. I hope not.