Here's what really happens when my parents get back!

For more than a decade, my father's loyal readers have been treated to tales from my parents' far-off travels. In addition to knickknacks for the grandchildren, he has always returned home from his adventures with anecdotes and suggestions for his column. From Mount Rushmore to Mount Fuji, Iceland to Istanbul and back again to Jericho, he never fails to deliver for his fans.

Nevertheless, speaking as somebody who knows him better than anybody except his traveling companion (my mother), I must say that he does forget to recount a very important piece of every one of his journeys: his re-entry.

In certain ways, the NASA space shuttle returns home to Cape Canaveral with less bombast than my parents coming back from an overseas expedition. That makes sense perhaps because a spacecraft only needs to break through the earth's atmosphere, not unbearably long customs lines at JFK airport filled with weary travelers. But in other ways, my parents' return to their own personal atmosphere is far more blustery.

Here's a snapshot of "Cape Greenberg" after touchdown.

Forget unpacking, as soon as the door opens, my father throws his overstuffed bags down and rushes for the mail, usually taken inside and stacked on the dining room table by a gracious neighbor. Precious mail in hand, he clears off a space on the kitchen table to see what the postman left him while he was away. He voraciously attacks the envelopes as a starving man would attack a buffet table. Generally, it's just junk and bills and definitely not worth the angst. Yet, like Pavlov's puppies, my father will never learn to unwind from his trip until the mail is read.

And now, since he has joined the electronic age, that means e-mails as well. Once again, mostly junk.

While my father is catching up on the post, my mother rushes to catch up with the family. She calls the kids first to let them know they are back and can be there to babysit or solve a problem in a moment's notice. Even if it's my sister in San Diego. Another multihour flight away is no matter of course, because at least it's California, no passport required.

Then she dials her sisters in Maryland (unless they were traveling together) to make sure the greater family is still intact. Afterward, she will check in with friends until six full degrees of separation know that they can count on my mother to do something/anything for them.

By this time my dad has deleted his junk-mail and wants to check the messages. He does this with the same force and seriousness with which he attacked the mail at the kitchen table.

"Off the phone Lorraine! I need to see who called!" he commands.

Knowing his mission quite well, my mother cedes the handset to him and moves onto her next chore, telling the neighbors that the Greenbergs have returned.

Back at the phone, my father learns of all the tennis games that he missed. Seems like a lot of Hamlet players had to miss their games this week. All the other messages are no more or less pressing. Most are along the lines of "Hi mom, just seeing if you are home yet!"

Mail, e-mail and messages finished. His world in working order, he exhales to see my mother returning through the front door. They look at each other. The whirlwind of travel finally hits them. The adrenaline of re-entry subsiding, they look disdainfully at the unpacked bags in the doorway. A final tiring chore after a successful, yet draining trip.

Then inevitably my mother realizes that they don't have to end their vacation just yet.

"Stanley, I'm hungry. Why don't we go to the diner?"

And off they go to the diner. Until their next adventure!