“How come?

“Just do it,” my wife said, echoing my command. “Now!” We all collapsed and crouched on the floor of our minivan. I counted to 20.

“That should do it,” I said and snuck a peak over the windowsill. “Coast clear.”

It was a Saturday afternoon on West End Avenue, and I had spotted the rabbi walking toward us at a distance of about 100 feet. With my son’s bar mitzvah approaching, we’d recently gotten more involved in our local synagogue, and although I think the world of the rabbi—he’s one of the brightest, most compassionate, most inspiring people I’ve ever met—I just didn’t want him to see us trundling out of a car on Shabbat.

Something had come over me: I had finally understood what it meant to be a good Jew.

It wasn’t the first indication. Just a few weeks earlier, also on a Saturday afternoon, my brood and I were wolfing down lunch at the diner just down the street from the temple and there he was, through the plate-glass window, the rabbi. I think I grabbed an oversized menu out of the hands of an old lady at the booth on the other side of ours and buried my nose in it. Had I been spotted? I don’t think so—I have always been known as someone with quick reflexes.

“What was that all about?” my wife asked.

“The rabbi was walking by.”

“So?”

“Well, I’m in the Talmud class and it’s Shabbat, and I shouldn’t be, you know—” I nodded to what was left of the burger deluxe on the platter before me and thanked the heavens that I hadn’t opted for the cheeseburger.

“You’re crazy,” she said.

But that was weeks ago. By now, we’d had more pre-bar-mitzvah conversations and had actually gone to Saturday services ourselves once or twice in the interim. We were both seen and noted. Now she was also aware.

“That was close,” my wife said, as we frog-marched our three kids into the lobby of our building after the crouching-minivan incident.

It’s not that I’m in denial; I accept my Jewish identity. It’s just that, well, after an umpteen-year hiatus from anything resembling regular synagogue attendance (actually, an entire life’s hiatus), I was more than a little rusty. For instance, as I said, I’ve started taking my son to shul, as synagogue is called by people who use it regularly, on Saturdays. It’s not easy to get him to sit there for the whole thing, from something like 9 a.m. until around 12:30. So, to break him (and me) in, we head out at about 10 and try to leave as soon as it’s feasible, though even that can take two or three hours. And even then—even after one has decided that a decent interval has passed—it’s no mean trick getting out without being noticed.

The first time we tried to duck out early, I cased the joint pretty good. I was patient; I waited. And finally, during a transition point in the service with lots of hubbub, I grabbed the boy and we fled stage right. But just as we were making our move, all the internal commotion miraculously stopped and our every step seemed to echo through the Moorish arches like the footfalls of William (Refrigerator) Perry. Needless to say, all eyes were on us. I grabbed Noah and we slid into the nearest pew.

The following weekend, I tried slipping out a little earlier and sitting a little closer to the door—after all, we had already done our couple of hours. The rabbi, who was otherwise occupied moving about the various podia, didn’t see us, but an usher gave us a very nasty look indeed. Still, that was progress. We were religiously attending services; that had to count for something.

Then they had a special pre-bar-mitzvah all-day-Sunday event: just a handful of pre-bar-mitzvah parents hanging out, eating pretzels and learning stuff all day long. No place to run. No place to hide. All day long. We shook hands. We nodded. We did the exercises. And the whole time, my son kept whispering in my ear about when and how we would cut out, split, vamoose. My wife was alone with the other two kids: That would be our excuse. And we had done the better part of the morning. And the rabbi hadn’t appeared yet. Then, just as we were about to slip down the elevator: “Hi, how are you.? Nice to see you.”

“Hi.”

“Hi, rabbi.”

“I’m just here for a little while—I’ve got a baby-naming, a bris and a Yiddish class or two—but I’m so glad to see you both.”

Caught. We couldn’t leave—not just yet.

“And what’s really great,” the rabbi continued, “we can do a whole thing on putting on tefillin.”

Now let me be clear on this: I do not have anything against the wearing of ritual phylacteries. It is a wonderful, time-honored practice. It’s just that with a fidgety 12-year-old and my somewhat shaky relationship with Jewish ritual overall, at that particular moment it seemed like a mitzvah too far. My son took me aside. He’d met an older kid at the event, a kid who he’d been doing some charity work with. “Dad, can me and Mitchell go, you know, and hang out?”

“What about the rest of the teaching? The learning? This afternoon?”

“Oh, come on, Dad, I know all that stuff, and anyway, Mitchell’s really cool, he’s having his bar mitzvah in like a couple of weeks—he can tell me everything about everything I don’t know.”

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

I wasn’t so sure, but the swarm of other bar and bat mitzvah parents had moved to the other side of the room, and I saw that if we acted fast, we could make our exit.

“Mitchell, you’re sure you’re sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure I’m sure.”

“O.K.,” I said. “On the count of three, we all go for it.”

“Really?”

“One, two, three.”

And we were running down the stairs, flight after flight after flight. We burst out onto the street. I looked around; the coast was clear. We’d chalked up half a day. Despite a couple of glitches, I had still managed to spend more time in (or about) a synagogue than I ever had before. Even when I wasn’t there, I was thinking about it.

I didn’t feel 100 percent good, but I felt good. Maybe something like 70 or 80 percent good. Which was still pretty good for me.

“How come?

“Just do it,” my wife said, echoing my command. “Now!” We all collapsed and crouched on the floor of our minivan. I counted to 20.

“That should do it,” I said and snuck a peak over the windowsill. “Coast clear.”

It was a Saturday afternoon on West End Avenue, and I had spotted the rabbi walking toward us at a distance of about 100 feet. With my son’s bar mitzvah approaching, we’d recently gotten more involved in our local synagogue, and although I think the world of the rabbi—he’s one of the brightest, most compassionate, most inspiring people I’ve ever met—I just didn’t want him to see us trundling out of a car on Shabbat.

Something had come over me: I had finally understood what it meant to be a good Jew.

It wasn’t the first indication. Just a few weeks earlier, also on a Saturday afternoon, my brood and I were wolfing down lunch at the diner just down the street from the temple and there he was, through the plate-glass window, the rabbi. I think I grabbed an oversized menu out of the hands of an old lady at the booth on the other side of ours and buried my nose in it. Had I been spotted? I don’t think so—I have always been known as someone with quick reflexes.

“What was that all about?” my wife asked.

“The rabbi was walking by.”

“So?”

“Well, I’m in the Talmud class and it’s Shabbat, and I shouldn’t be, you know—” I nodded to what was left of the burger deluxe on the platter before me and thanked the heavens that I hadn’t opted for the cheeseburger.

“You’re crazy,” she said.

But that was weeks ago. By now, we’d had more pre-bar-mitzvah conversations and had actually gone to Saturday services ourselves once or twice in the interim. We were both seen and noted. Now she was also aware.

“That was close,” my wife said, as we frog-marched our three kids into the lobby of our building after the crouching-minivan incident.

It’s not that I’m in denial; I accept my Jewish identity. It’s just that, well, after an umpteen-year hiatus from anything resembling regular synagogue attendance (actually, an entire life’s hiatus), I was more than a little rusty. For instance, as I said, I’ve started taking my son to shul, as synagogue is called by people who use it regularly, on Saturdays. It’s not easy to get him to sit there for the whole thing, from something like 9 a.m. until around 12:30. So, to break him (and me) in, we head out at about 10 and try to leave as soon as it’s feasible, though even that can take two or three hours. And even then—even after one has decided that a decent interval has passed—it’s no mean trick getting out without being noticed.

The first time we tried to duck out early, I cased the joint pretty good. I was patient; I waited. And finally, during a transition point in the service with lots of hubbub, I grabbed the boy and we fled stage right. But just as we were making our move, all the internal commotion miraculously stopped and our every step seemed to echo through the Moorish arches like the footfalls of William (Refrigerator) Perry. Needless to say, all eyes were on us. I grabbed Noah and we slid into the nearest pew.

The following weekend, I tried slipping out a little earlier and sitting a little closer to the door—after all, we had already done our couple of hours. The rabbi, who was otherwise occupied moving about the various podia, didn’t see us, but an usher gave us a very nasty look indeed. Still, that was progress. We were religiously attending services; that had to count for something.

Then they had a special pre-bar-mitzvah all-day-Sunday event: just a handful of pre-bar-mitzvah parents hanging out, eating pretzels and learning stuff all day long. No place to run. No place to hide. All day long. We shook hands. We nodded. We did the exercises. And the whole time, my son kept whispering in my ear about when and how we would cut out, split, vamoose. My wife was alone with the other two kids: That would be our excuse. And we had done the better part of the morning. And the rabbi hadn’t appeared yet. Then, just as we were about to slip down the elevator: “Hi, how are you.? Nice to see you.”

“Hi.”

“Hi, rabbi.”

“I’m just here for a little while—I’ve got a baby-naming, a bris and a Yiddish class or two—but I’m so glad to see you both.”

Caught. We couldn’t leave—not just yet.

“And what’s really great,” the rabbi continued, “we can do a whole thing on putting on tefillin.”

Now let me be clear on this: I do not have anything against the wearing of ritual phylacteries. It is a wonderful, time-honored practice. It’s just that with a fidgety 12-year-old and my somewhat shaky relationship with Jewish ritual overall, at that particular moment it seemed like a mitzvah too far. My son took me aside. He’d met an older kid at the event, a kid who he’d been doing some charity work with. “Dad, can me and Mitchell go, you know, and hang out?”

“What about the rest of the teaching? The learning? This afternoon?”

“Oh, come on, Dad, I know all that stuff, and anyway, Mitchell’s really cool, he’s having his bar mitzvah in like a couple of weeks—he can tell me everything about everything I don’t know.”

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

I wasn’t so sure, but the swarm of other bar and bat mitzvah parents had moved to the other side of the room, and I saw that if we acted fast, we could make our exit.

“Mitchell, you’re sure you’re sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure I’m sure.”

“O.K.,” I said. “On the count of three, we all go for it.”

“Really?”

“One, two, three.”

And we were running down the stairs, flight after flight after flight. We burst out onto the street. I looked around; the coast was clear. We’d chalked up half a day. Despite a couple of glitches, I had still managed to spend more time in (or about) a synagogue than I ever had before. Even when I wasn’t there, I was thinking about it.

I didn’t feel 100 percent good, but I felt good. Maybe something like 70 or 80 percent good. Which was still pretty good for me.

PQ: 'But one thing: What are records?'

I wanted an afternoon of bonding with my 11-year-old son, but I also wanted an afternoon-so, in a fit of inspiration, I figured that he and one of his friends were finally old enough to cruise the Lower East Side with me (we live on the Upper West). It was a Saturday-dark, oily, rainy. Perfect weather for Zach's introduction to some true New York grit. And grit that might open his eyes to life beyond PlayStation and Disney. With this in mind, we grabbed a couple of stunted umbrellas and headed out for my first real grown-up father-son outing.

I discovered that a Japanese animated film about environmental matters and exploding stuff was playing at a hip multiplex (who knew?) in a renovated synagogue on the corner of Houston and 1st Avenue. Perfect. We picked up my son's friend Jake, who immediately whipped out his new PSP-a handheld device created by the devil himself to allow children to carry the complete firepower of their PlayStation with them anywhere. For 127 blocks, I worried that one of the hooded teens lurking nearby on the No. 6 train would lift the device and I'd owe Jake's parents five or six hundred bucks.

We approached the ticket window. A fuzzy boy/man who was Steve Buscemi's doppelgänger squinted at me. "Three for Steamboy," I said.

"Thirty-six dollars," he said back. This sure wasn't the penny-ante, hardscrabble Lower East Side of old.

"But, but," I said, waiting for my racing pulse to slow, "see, I've got two kids!" I pointed down to the scrambling scamps to my right.

"Oh, yeah-uh, they're short. Twenty-three bucks."

We still had an hour and a half to kill before showtime. Food. Food was the answer.

"O.K., guys, you wanna go to Katz's Deli?"

"Do they have sushi?" Zach asked.

"No, not sushi-a real deli. Salami. Pastrami. Knishes." There was no response. "Hot dogs?" I said. "They have the best hot dogs in the world."

"Better than Gray's Papaya?" Jake said. "I don't think so."

As we entered, Jake said, "Oh, I used to go here all the time with my pre-school class."

"I just reached the fifth level," Zach responded, never looking up.

We got our meal ticket and fell into line behind an all-girls marching band from Arkansas. Blond, pink-sweatsuited farm girls were ordering up kasha and kishke and derma like old pros. About 25 minutes later, I piloted three hot dogs to our sticky table.

"Look, guys, look how cool this place is! It's been here forever, you just take whatever you want at the counter and pay at the end-look, 'Send a salami to your boy in the Army'! Movies have been shot here!"

"Oh," they said, faces buried in pixels.

"After lunch, I thought we'd just cruise around-you know, check out some record stores, guitar stores. What do you guys think?"

"What are records?" Jake replied.

Our first stop was a trip-hop/hip-hop record store. Actual LP's lined the walls. There were two turntables at the front counter.

"Guys, this is a turntable," I announced. It was then that I noticed a) the lyrics to the trip-hop screed blaring from the speakers involved a word describing a physical act that would've been bleeped out of any media we allowed in our apartment and b) the boys were paying attention to it. I marshaled them out the door before the climax, but not before they had put their fingers all over one of the turntables, causing the stringy-haired proprietor to glare at me.

"Who wants hot chocolate?" I asked.

"These stores around here are all weird, like my aunt's art gallery in Nantucket," Jake said. A guy who looked like Bryan Ferry after a bender came in, whispered something to the owner and took a demitasse of espresso out into the rain. What passed for hot chocolate had so little chocolate and so much steamed milk in it that I was amazed Jake drank it at all. But they were getting bored.

On the way back to the "hip-t-plex," our umbrellas turned into gnarled pieces of vinyl and bent metal. The rain stung like icy BB's. The concession stand only served Dutch candy bars and 12 different kinds of herbal tea. A couple of Droste bars placated the boys, but just barely. We climbed the wrought-iron staircase to a waiting room facing the gigantic windows that once must have been the shul's stained glass.

Watching the rain pound Houston Street, I prayed that at least the kids would enjoy the movie.

The trailers weren't like anything the boys had ever seen. There was a decidedly freaky short, sponsored by a Belgian beer, about girls who take drugs, think they're being visited by the Virgin Mary and eventually die. (All that in two minutes!) After which, not completely disappointed, Zach turned to me: "That's it, Dad? It was short."

"No, that was just a short subject. The movie's coming." It started.

"Chinese writing," Jake said.

"Weird."

The movie was in Japanese! With subtitles. This was a little more than I bargained for. "It's Japanese, guys-this is a Japanese movie."

"That's cool," Jake said. "Some of my pirated PSP games are, too."

"Yeah," said Zach. "Dad, can watching this count for my reading time today?"

The film built from explosion to crescendo, and I could see they were happy and enjoying it. But finally, just as all the bad guys were about to obliterate 19th-century London, Zach grabbed my arm. "I got to go."

"What?"

"I got to go now-really!"

"Can't you hold it?"

"No."

Happily, when we got back to our seats, the mayhem was still unspooling. Then there was a delicious last moment of dénouement as all the loose ends were wrapping up. My cell phone rang. My wife.

"I'm on the East Side; it's still pouring. I can get you guys."

"Shhhh," I said, "I'll call you back." I hung up on her. The boy and the girl were just reconciling after saving the world!

After the movie, when I called my wife back and apologized, she said tersely: "O.K., but the sitter's coming at 6 and we've got the auction."

We slogged back to the subway. I was late, soaked, furious, not quite sure exactly how the movie resolved, and rushing to something I'd just realized I was already a half-hour late for. And then Zach turned to me. "Thanks, Dad, really-that was cool." And it was.

Yes, we decided that for our Chloe, we'd do it all ourselves. There would be no light-saber-balloon-twisting maniac for us this year, just good old parents putting on a good old party for kids having good, clean fun.

"I ordered the balloons," my wife said. "Why don't you take the car and get them?" And she handed me the claim ticket.

She had discovered a bodega in the lower reaches of Harlem that sold helium balloons at a discount. Once I got there, I was faced with so many balloons that, when the wisp of a woman behind the counter handed them to me, I was afraid she might actually be lifted off the ground. I wrestled them out of the store.

As soon as I got on the sidewalk, I heard gunshots and ducked. Then another round ripped, this one dangerously close to my left ear. I knew this was a dicey neighborhood, but I never imagined a buy-and-bust operation could go so horribly wrong in the middle of a balmy Sunday morning like this. Then I realized that what I heard were balloons popping. Old ladies laughed out loud at the sight of me corralling a bunch of helium balloons (a pride of balloons? a gaggle of balloons? a passel?) into the hatchback of our much-dented minivan.

Fwap! A gigantic pink one exploded directly into my right eye.

I popped open the van's back door. Grasping the balloon ribbons in my mouth, I managed with one hand to fold down the back seat and start pushing them in. No sooner would I push in a bunch (a swarm? a plethora?) of balloons than another few would escape. I was starting to gather quite a little crowd by now; I think a cuchifrito guy even wheeled his cart over to capitalize on the traffic I was generating. I closed my eyes and lowered the hatch. The muffled sound of another St. Valentine's Day Massacre greeted the sealing of the car- pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!

As I strode back to the apartment with the remaining balloons in hand, I endured the sanctimonious smiles of people on my street, who were looking at me like some kind of cute idiot. "Look at that cute idiot!" I could see them thinking, "Look at that cute-idiot daddy trying to put on his own birthday party and marshal all his own balloons all by himself!"

"Do I have big scratches on my retina?" I asked my wife, who was busy with a watermelon.

"Is that 40 balloons?" she asked.

"Look, one popped right in my eye-I think it might have detached something."

Finally, the guests started arriving. To kick off the party, I trumpeted, "O.K., everybody, we're going to play some Hot Potato!"

"No!"

"I don't wanna!"

"PlayStation!" yelled a kid dressed head to toe in New York Giants regalia, looking up at me with a scowl.

"It's gonna be fun! You'll see," I said. And then I realized that I didn't know how to play, and I didn't have time to Google "Hot Potato rules." All the parents' eyes were locked on me, gazes that screamed: Who is this guy, and who is he trying to fool with that wrapped potato?

I had to wing it. I got them into a circle on the floor. "Ready," I said, "go!" Tiny hands started passing the silver lump around; it tumbled out of laps, rolled out onto the floor, whacked into tiny glasses, but it moved. All the kids were enjoying it, and I think I even saw a few of the parents unclench their jaws. But the game had to go somewhere; something had to … happen. So, I did the unthinkable. I yelled it.

"Hot Potato!"

Little Sebastian was caught potato-handed. Little Sebastian had to leave the circle. Those were the rules, right? Sebastian's father glared at me. Sebastian anchored all 20 pounds of himself to the floor and wouldn't budge. "Come on, Sebastian," I said, "it's just a game. Don't worry, other kids are going to get the hot potato, too. You'll see."

"You made me lose!"

I looked to Sebastian's father for some kind of support. None was forthcoming-I think he was too stunned, maybe hurt.

"Come on, you'll see, we'll play again …. "

"You coulda picked Chloe, but you didn't because she's your daughter, you let the potato skip her!" Sebastian protested and started to cry. And then I finally understood: We don't live in a society where there are winners and losers-not at children's birthday parties. I'm sure the parents were thinking that this wasn't what they were spending tens of thousands of dollars a year on private schools for, to have all that self-esteem-building work ruined by some cheapskate dad who pulls out a scrap of tin foil and uses it to wreak havoc on their beautiful, pure, never-gonna-lose kids.

"O.K., Sebastian, you win. This isn't really such a fun game." I mussed his hair and scanned the room for my wife, but I think she was off calling Marsha the Moose to see if she could make an emergency visit.

But after what dragged on like a day of C-SPAN, the clock finally struck 2. We did it: With a combination of elbow grease, refined sugar, and the late addition of a SpongeBob SquarePants piñata I had managed to buy at the last minute, I salvaged the afternoon. As the parents filed out, one of them said to me, "You were a real Mister Rogers up there. The kids were hanging on your every word, your every move."

I collapsed on the couch. I kind of missed Marsha the Moose. I'd probably get her next time. God knows she's driving a better car than I am.

As if fitting a family of five into a Manhattan apartment wasn't hard enough, I never realized that signing my lease also entitled me to become a floating pied-à-terre for guests from near and far. An errant cousin, O.K., that I could take-but after the first few days of our Franco-American hospitality experiment, I had a serious suspicion that, just like the roaches behind our backsplash, our visitors would check in but they'd never check out.

I started to fear that I'd walk out of the kitchen and there they'd be, the lot of them crammed into my daughter's bedroom, my daughter spliced between my wife and me in our bed, the boys doubled up in their room, an Everest of suitcases clotting our front hall. I'd hear our Parisian friends getting up at dawn to make it to a gospel church service in Harlem (never done it), then go to a matinee of the latest overamplified Broadway musical (never done it), skip downtown to grab a special $20.99 lunch at Babbo (never done it), then scour the sale bins at Century 21, J and R Music, B and H Photo (never fit into my schedule), flit over to the West Side Highway to take the Circle Line (sorry, never boarded the boat in my life), then slake down some aperitifs at the Oak Bar (never!), and then maybe grab a couple quick turns around the park in a horse and carriage (not moi!) before heading uptown, whipping up an omelette aux herbes, changing their underwear and heading out for a Pinter play or two (I've never managed to see one-not even on Channel 13).

Which isn't to say that our guests didn't provide a service. It's really great to hear firsthand about all the latest shows and restaurants and clubs we're missing. Fact is, my wife and I are usually too preoccupied with homework and violin practice and paying the bills and making lunches and giving baths to pay much attention, so it's nice to listen to our friends as they natter on in broken English: "Oh, and the Indo-Mexican food we has enjoy on Le Avenue D, she was fantastique!"

And then there are the spoils. These people live in frickin' Paris, for heaven's sake, and they're running into the apartment night after night weighed down with fluorescent shopping bags full of detritus from the cheesiest of cheesy New York emporia: Styrofoam visors from Old Navy (" Très bon, très chic"); New York Mets Bobbleheads from Modell's Sporting Goods ("Ooo la la, ziz Dayglo baseball, c'est merveilleux!"); even toothpaste and candy from Duane Reade (" Le drougstore absolument! Regardez les Necco's Wafers!"). Not to mention the cartons and crates they haul back from every two-bit going-out-of-business electronics retailer between Washington Heights and Chinatown. We were lucky they were able to have the hi-def plasma-screen TV they bought (SECAM!) shipped directly to France. I really think I would have lost it had they unpacked the 54-inch monster and tried it out in the shadow of our flickering 19-incher.

What's more, despite the fact that they own a huge house in a leafy Parisian suburb-something like four stories and a garden-they really loved piling all over each other in our daughter's bedroom. " Le slumming!" they'd chirp, as all of them, including Monsieur le Médecin, trampolined themselves on our pillows and rapidly deflating air mattresses. "Eez just like the flat fantastique comme Robert De Niro à habité in Taxi Driver, la force majeure cinématographique!"

" Oui," I replied.

And I have to say, I'm not so sure about all this stuff about the French lacking in personal hygiene. These folks were clean. In fact, they managed to block up our showers for hours at a time; they went through clean towels like they were Jerry Lewis movies. Shampoo, soap, toothpaste, dental floss-even toenail clippers-were consumed at lightning speed. You haven't lived until you've used a sliver of Dial soap to wash, shampoo and shave-especially when you've got a REALLY BIG, BIG MEETING IN A HALF-HOUR.

They didn't always dine out, either. Freed from the culinary capitol of the world, our friends went ga-ga over every kind of fried, deep-fried, double-deep-fried, MSG-coated delivery food they could get their hands on. Here we were, struggling to keep a lid on carbs and sugars and fats and lipids and cholesterol, and they were cackling with Gallic glee as they dialed up every take-out/delivery restaurant in a 20-block radius at all hours. It was hard to keep a civil tongue when they're wolfing down a bacon double cheeseburger deluxe from the Homer Diner (complete with a honking huge fried-onion ring and le cheese frites!), especially when you're struggling to swallow down a tofu pup, dry. " Le bon gout!" they'd howl as nachos platters and Buffalo wings and Pad Thai flowed in, a Hudson River of forbidden trans-fatty acids.

Oddly, just as the day of their departure was creeping up, a flurry of phone calls took place. They were feverishly passing around the receiver, jabbering in lightning-fast French. My junior-high language skills gave me just enough facility to understand that they were negotiating with Air France about changing their tickets. Before I knew it, they had decided to blow off Barbados, St. Lucia, Anguilla and tree-house living in Costa Rica for … West End Avenue. It seems there were one or two Off Off Off Broadway shows they hadn't managed to see, three or four top-rated restaurants they hadn't sampled, and they still wanted to try ordering in from the Nepalese take-out joint.

What could I say? No? "No" is not an option-not with friends. Of course, they did eventually pack up and make their way back to Paris, doing a nice job for the U.S. trade balance in the process. But now that the greenback is languishing even deeper in the international monetary basement, just a few baht above the rupee, I realize that Monsieur le Docteur may decide to drop in on us again any day now-who knows how many Mike Piazzas the euro will be able to devour these days? Quelle horreur. Quelle horreur.

In fact, as we steeled ourselves for the move, we realized there were many good reasons for us to finally leave the city. For one, our children were afraid of grass: They seemed to find it too long and too squishy. I remember our first visit to a friend's house, trying to coax Zach out on the lawn. He stood on the cement patio shrieking.

The following Saturday, we saw nine houses. I wanted to buy each and every one. Sure, some were missing a bathroom or a bedroom, or a lawn large enough to put a picnic table on. But other than that, they were perfect. Why? They all had driveways, nice, big, smooth, drive-right-up driveways. But my wife was looking for more than a $700,000 driveway with an attached house.

Over the next seven weekends, we looked at dozens of houses, with the same dismal results. Then, on Week 8, just as we were about to pack up and call it a weekend, an undiscovered gem landed in our laps.

"Something very special just came in," our broker said. "It's having an open house tomorrow, but if we hurry over, we can get a sneak peek." She slammed on the brakes, pulled a "U" through four lanes of traffic and headed toward the property.

The house was charm incarnate: white wood siding with a red door, a glorious porch anchored by Disneyesque columns, and the most majestically peaked green roof touching the sky. A lone cloud cleared it, and the sun illuminated the house in a blaze.

I felt the home's warm, comforting arms wrap us up. By the time we got back to the city, we had put in an offer at just above asking price. Two hours later, we had the most beautiful e-mail from the owner: He was honored to be passing his house along to us. That night, we dreamed golden dreams.

After much paperwork, only one hurdle separated us from the house: the home inspection. We turned to an old friend who was, without question, the most anal person I have ever known.

"Have I got a guy for you!" she exclaimed.

On the fateful day, I drove out and found a short, stocky man in a flannel shirt with a tool belt waiting for me in front of a minivan with Harvard, Brown and M.I.T. stickers nearly obliterating the back window. This was Tom, the feared inspector. He shook my hand with clinical precision.

"I'm going to do the outside first. If you have any questions, speak up"-at which point, he pulled a handheld recording device out of his holster, walked up to the house and let rip.

"House approximately 1920's Colonial, exterior shows normal signs of wear, condition is to be expected for a home of this age, adequate upon visual inspection." Click. Then with short, brisk steps he moved a few feet back, pulled a pair of binoculars from his belt and started scanning the roof. "Roof is shingle variety, less than adequate, showing seven layers, drainage situation is"- click, then, off-mike to me: "See how the drains don't abut in a square fashion?"

I nodded, although I had no idea what he was talking about. He hit the recorder again: "Recessed drainage for water field shows possible water damage; less than adequate."

And so on. Sometimes he'd pull out an awl and poke through wood which, to my eyes, looked like it could last another thousand years. Sometimes he'd tap on a surface with his knuckle. At one point, he pulled out a doctor's stethoscope and actually started listening to a wall-for a pulse? A steady stream of technical information flowed into the recorder-and, to my ears, not very much of it sounded good. He'd raise the specter of asbestos poisoning, sewage spills, roof collapses, flaming infernos, electrical maelstroms-I felt like I was getting pummeled in the stomach over and over again.

"Don't worry," said the broker. "I've seen worse."

"Have you seen worse?" I asked the inspector, making sure the broker was out of earshot.

After a pause, he said yes, he had, but I didn't believe him. He was already hard at it into the recorder: "The condition of the attic-what limited access we have-below adequate, substandard and below par."

***

My attorney was laying it out for me: "I can't tell you whether or not to get it, but if you feel like being handy and you've got a lot of time and money on your hands, it might be for you, you know?"

Handy? Does being able to change almost any kind of light bulb (except halogen bulbs) count as handy?

"How much do I lose if I back out?" I asked, the 19-page fax of the inspection report sitting in front of me, covered with stripes of highlighter pens of three different hues (green for "below adequate," blue for "substantially below adequate" and pink-the most prevalent color-for "severely below adequate.")

And that was that. We bagged it.

Over the next few weeks, we all tried to convince ourselves that our apartment was perfect. I let the kids roller-blade and play basketball in it to their hearts' content.

But it's amazing how things can change. Only six short weeks after the debacle, my wife and I were having this conversation about another house:

Me: "How's the roof? Be sure to check the roof."

She: "The roof, it looks fine."

Me: "Not how it looks-get up there and check it out. Up close."

She: "It looks great."

Me: "And the floors-that top one needs carpet."

She: "I'll get carpet. I'll fix it."

Me: "The windows look good."

She: "I love the design. Look how cute it is."

Me: "And it's got real tiles in the kitchen-a couple are coming up, but you can fix them."

She: "I'll go to a store and fix them."

Me: "It's really nice. How's the price?"

She: "I think it's good."

Me: "You sure?"

She: "I love it."

Me: "O.K., we'll take it then. I'll just carry it over to the car-unless we can fit it on top of the stroller, that is."

She: "I'll write a check for it."

And we finally did it: We bought a house, a big dollhouse, at a flea market in Wellfleet, Mass. A side-hall Colonial. It passed our inspection, and I think our daughter is really going to love it. She's not crazy about it just yet, but once my wife and I get through fixing it up, a little paint, you'll see. She'll love it. I just hope we can fit it through the door of our apartment. I really do.

Player B: "Could you repeat that?"

Once you've negotiated all that, the last thing you want to think about is "head up/hit up" or "punch the ball." You'd rather punch a wall. But there are alternatives. Recently, to dope myself into the illusion that I was living a normal life in a normal American city, I joined something called USTA Team Tennis. I had heard about this over the years, like people in the former Soviet Union used to hear about microwave ovens and filter cigarettes. It sounded so nice, so low-stress, so desirable. Not only would the munificent souls at the USTA arrange games and practices, but these would be offered at prices friendly to the masses and at convenient times and locations. And they could get courts . At last, tennis would be mine! In a fit of euphoria, I went and bought another expensive pair of mightily advertised sneakers.

Our team had a maniacal coach-according to league rules, we weren't allowed to have professional coaches, just amateur captains, but he sure acted like a tinpot Bill Parcells-and he positively shined when it came to the Manhattan court conundrum. He knew where all the borough's hidden courts lurked.

There is one court that is so secure, its name cannot be uttered and its address cannot be written down. It is omerta , Yahweh and the tomb of the Holy Grail all wrapped into one. This, of course, was where Cappy would have us work out.

"The game is, you know, there-Saturday," he said on the phone.

"No, I don't know where," I said. "Where?"

"The court, you know- there ," he said.

"The court?"

"Exactly."

"Can you give me a hint? Maybe an address or something?"

"O.K., I tell you what, you say it's a lesson with Kevin. You say he's going to be coaching poaching."

"Coaching poaching?"

"Yes. Kevin. Got it?"

"Uptown? Downtown? East Side? Give me a chance here."

"East Side," he snarled.

Come the fateful Saturday-excuses proffered, beds made, kids screaming-I slunk out the door, whispered "See you later," excised the car from its precious parking spot and began canvassing the streets of the East Side. I navigated the labyrinth of one-way, no-way, this-way, that-way streets. I zipped across 68th Street-nothing-but I thought I saw some green down on 66th, so I whipped down there-nope, it was only the fringes of Rockefeller University-then, the clock ticking, I dashed back to 65th Street, but the blocks were all backing up, so I actually had to wing it out to the F.D.R. Drive, slip between the Tangier/Morocco rally and slither back to Park Avenue, hang a right, a left and a right and then, finally, I saw it: Tucked between a public school and the back end of a church, I saw chain link and courts. I ran up to the fence.

Amazingly, although there were people out there hitting the ball, there was no gate! How do they get in? I wondered. Are they airlifted? Standing on the sidewalk clutching my racket, jittery from my drive, I struggled to catch the attention of a little old lady with calves like an Olympic long-jumper. I smashed my racket against the fence; she walked over and looked down at me.

"Hi, I'm looking for the, the practice."

"There is no practice."

"I'm looking for the USTA Team practice, at the secret court. This must be it, right?"

"There's no practice here," she said, balls bipping and popping like popcorn all around her over the crumbly black asphalt.

"I don't think you get what I'm saying. I'm looking right at the court, the court you're on, and I think I'm supposed to be having practice here and …. "

"This is private," she scowled at me and turned on her heels.

"Wait, wait, wait," I bleated.

My mind was racing. What the hell was that guy's name. Kyle? Keith? Finally, as she started lighting up a fancy French cigarette (I could tell she was once a very attractive woman), I blurted out, "Kevin! Kevin!"

This caught her attention. "Kevin!," I repeated. "I'm looking for the secret court for the lesson with Kevin-you know, the guy who sometimes teaches over at Randall's and …. "

She knelt down and whispered, "You're looking for 63rd Street." And then she smiled. "This one's private," she said. I sprinted down to said street-nothing. I ran back to the avenue, into deli after deli: "Excuse me, where's the tennis court?" Friendly, smirking East Siders pointed me in every direction.

"Have you tried Central Park?"

"Have you tried the bubbles under the bridge?"

"I don't really think there is one."

Dejected, forlorn, resigned to failure, I turned a corner and saw a crack between two buildings-and there, way, way back, I saw the captain himself, and rackets, and-lo and behold!-a gate that opened.

On that fateful Saturday, I managed to squeeze in about 15 minutes of practice. Only slightly sweaty, and more relieved than renewed, I felt ready to take on anything a season of New York tennis could serve up.