“You need to come home. Now.”

“I hear you,” I reply, holding the phone at a distance. Maya’s voice comes across the line at a higher decibel level than usual. “Are you sure you’re feeling contractions?”

“Daniel!” It is nearly a shout. “I know what this is and I know that you have to be on the next flight.”

“Alright,” I say, wondering if this isn’t another case of false labor, like the symptoms that sent us to the hospital prematurely just two weeks ago. “I will order my ticket for tonight.”

“I don’t know if I can last that long!”

It is early afternoon so there’s plenty of time to make a reservation. There is no doubt in my mind that there will be an empty seat on the plane. Not many people fly from Sofia to Tel Aviv in the middle of the week.

After ending the conversation with an ‘I love you’ on her side and an “I love you, too’ from me, I turn back to my laptop and regard an Inbox filled with urgent emails awaiting my attention. Contracts to review, shipments that are late, and complaints about delayed payments. It is not easy managing an international firm with offices in both Israel and Bulgaria. Maya complains about my frequent flights to Sofia, and how that leaves her alone in our Tel Aviv apartment dealing with the pregnancy on her own. Luckily there have been no complications in the past nine months but as this will be our first child—a boy—it is natural for her to be concerned. Especially during the last trimester.

Maya understands why I work part of the time overseas, I tell myself. Why I fly back and forth every other week. She realizes how important it is to have my company succeed. It is a startup, admittedly, but one with huge potential. Succeeding in this business will ensure our financial future. I am not suggesting that we leave Israel, or that we relocate to Sofia, even temporarily, as many other Israelis have done, but that I split my management duties working out of two offices.

While I know that Maya supports me in this venture, and that she backs me every step of the way, what has really bothered her is the fact that I set up our second office in Bulgaria. Why Bulgaria? she asked me, repeatedly, when I told her of the plan. Of all the countries to choose from, why had I chosen an East European country with a communist past and a far from stellar record as a member of the European Union. ‘Silicon Valley, I can understand,’ she had said to me. ‘England would even be acceptable.’

Bulgaria is only a two-hour flight from Israel, I told her. The country offers excellent conditions for our second office, I explained. A highly educated, multiple language-speaking workforce. A modern internet infrastructure. Low labor costs and reasonable corporate tax requirements. In short, we could get everything we needed in Sofia at a much cheaper price than what we would have to pay in the United States or elsewhere.

While Maya had eventually acquiesced to my decision, things were apparently different now that we are on the verge of starting our family—something we have planned since the day we got married. Maya is more emotional than usual, more judgmental. More prone to criticize my business decisions when they interfere in our personal lives.

When I informed Maya that I would have to make one additional flight to Bulgaria before the birth, she was both upset and somewhat disappointed in me. I calmed her down with reassurances that I would be home well before her due date. There was absolutely no way I could miss a planned meeting with prospective investors in Sofia. I really had to go, I told her. That was four days ago.

The phone rings and this time it is a call from my partner, back in the Tel Aviv office. We discuss our business plan, the plan we have been working on together for months. The plan that details our years of service in the Israeli army’s Intelligence Corps and our experience working in Israeli high-tech companies. Our entrepreneurial ingenuity and our willingness to work long hours with little compensation. The executive summary that lays out our vision for the future. We will be profitable within three years, we wrote in the plan. We just needed the seed money to fund those three years. Ahead of the meeting, we are both optimistic.

“Make sure to mention how little competition there is and how that gives us a first-mover advantage,” my partner says.

“Of course.” But then, I remember something. I won’t be able to attend the next day’s meeting after all. “Maya is giving birth,” I explain. “Well, not right at this moment, but soon.”

“So, what are you doing in Sofia?”

“I’m coming home tonight,” I tell him, although I have yet to book my ticket.

“No, you’re not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Go online. You’ll see.”

I hang up and open my browser. I quickly surf to CNN and there it is, a bold headline splashed across the top of the page.

‘Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull volcano shuts down flights across Europe.’

What is that all about? I start reading the article and learn how the most active volcano in Iceland has erupted. There is a picture of plumes of dark gray smoke rising from a mountaintop, a crater spewing ash into the atmosphere.

The ash cloud from the eruption is spreading across Europe, I read. Commercial jet traffic is canceled; airports are closed; and travelers across the continent are stranded. The article concludes with the statement that the natural event is expected to be the largest disruption to air traffic since the Second World War. And there is no indication that the situation will improve any time soon.

I can understand how a volcano eruption in Iceland could disrupt air travel in Britain and Scandinavia but how could that possibly affect me?

“Sofia Airport is closed,” I am informed when I call the agency that handles all of my travel arrangements. “All flights for the foreseeable future have been cancelled.”

Cancelled? That sounds like a strange word to use. Surely, she means ‘delayed’.

“I want to fly to Tel Aviv, not to Iceland,” I tell the woman. “Can you get me a seat on tonight’s El Al flight? Or Bulgarian Air if you have to.”

“Sorry sir, but there are no flights tonight.”

No flights? She must be mistaken. There are flights every day of the week, except for Fridays and Jewish holidays.

“My wife is giving birth. I must fly tonight,” I insist. “Even first class if you have to. There must be priority boarding for special cases like mine.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

“What about a flight to Istanbul?” I ask. “I can make a connection to Tel Aviv from there.”

“The airport is closed. There are no flights.”

I can’t believe that. The woman must be mistaken. If she can’t help me, I will handle this myself. Normally I don’t have patience to book my own flights. I can’t stand the minutiae of travel arrangements. That is why we work with the agency, especially when last minute reservations are necessary.

I click through to the El Al website. I fill in my personal details and make my way from one screen to the next. There is a flight scheduled for Tel Aviv, as usual. And, there is a seat available, as I had assumed. Why didn’t the woman at the agency know about this? I enter the numbers of my credit card, confirm the reservation, and sit back in my chair. Mission accomplished.

The phone rings. An emotionally-charged medical update.

“Are you coming?” Maya cries in my ear.

“I’m coming home,” I reassure her.

“Don’t you dare to come home if you don’t come home!” she threatens.

“You’re not making sense. You’re emotional.”

“Daniel, I’m about to give birth!”

There is no argument with that. I tell her I have a seat on the night flight and I will be back before she knows it. I understand what Maya’s going through, I really do. I take a long breath, relieved by the fact that I have a ticket home, a confirmed reservation.

A few minutes later, Dessislava walks into my office. Dessislava, a plump older woman with a toothy smile, is our office manager. Whenever I find myself burdened down with Bulgarian bureaucracy, Dessislava finds the shortcuts, the solutions, and the answers to my questions. She knows the ropes. I am indebted to her. I could never manage in Sofia on my own.

“I am flying to Tel Aviv tonight,” I tell her.

“What about your meeting tomorrow?”

“Can you reschedule for next week?”

“Yes, I will do that,” She turns to leave but spins around. “How are you flying tonight?”

“El Al. I booked it myself.”

“The airport is closed. Because of that volcano.”

“I heard about the volcano. But El Al is flying. Otherwise my reservation wouldn’t have registered.”

“Should I check that for you?”

What was the need? I wonder. I had seen the confirmation notification on the screen. There is nothing to worry about. I appreciate Dessislava’s concern and her constant readiness to assist me, but in this case, I’ve managed just fine. But when I see a look of disappointment on her face, I change my mind.

“Yes, please,” I say. She smiles and I turn back to my screen.

Eyjafjallajökull is a volcano located beneath an ice cap in southern Iceland, I learn, some 125 kilometers south of Reykjavik. Eyjafjallajökull. How do you even pronounce that name? I am unable to pull my eyes away from my screen. I need to know more. I need to know everything.

Huge quantities of ash are pushing into the atmosphere.

The cloud of ash is blocking out the sun, turning day into night.

It is spreading eastwards, across the English Channel, across France and Germany. It is in the skies of Poland and Hungary, or it soon will be. Apparently, nothing will stop the cloud before it reaches Bulgarian airspace.

How much damage could a cloud of ash do? Surely modern aircraft employ the technology necessary for maneuvering in such a situation. What I read on the internet suggests something totally different.

Volcanic ash consists of fragments of pulverized rocks, minerals, and glass particles. If this debris is sucked into jet engine turbines, it could result in engine failure. Even in low concentrations, I read, the ash could pose significant threats to aircraft, disrupt communications, and damage sensitive equipment. In short, flying through a cloud of volcanic ash could cause a plane to crash.

But I have a ticket!

“The airport is still closed,” Dessislava reports a bit later.

“Did you check the list of departures?” I ask.

“I did, and that’s the strange thing. All flights are canceled, except for one. The night flight to Tel Aviv is listed as usual. No change in departure time.”

Relieved, I thank her and return to my laptop. There is work to be done, despite the cancellation of the meeting. I must inform the investors. Surely, they will understand my personal circumstances. We’re not pulling out from the deal. Far from it. And no, my partner can’t fly in from Tel Aviv. It is imperative that he remains in Israel to manage the home office and also, he is less familiar with the business plan. I will explain the situation to the investors. Dessislava will reschedule and everything will be okay.

I find that I can’t concentrate on anything but the volcano.

Eyjafjallajökull is pronounced EYE-a-fyat-la-jo-kutl, I learn. The cloud of ash is reported to be drifting at 18,000 to 33,000 feet above the earth, directly in the path of commercial airliners. Unlike the Chernobyl disaster in 1986, and its release of a radioactive cloud that spread across Europe, Iceland’s volcano poses no health threat to people on the ground. At least that.

The phone rings. Maya is clearly hysterical. “I’m going into labor!”

“Can’t you wait…” I start to ask before realizing I must sound like the dumbest husband ever. Luckily, she doesn’t respond to my idiotic remark. I hear her heavy breathing. “I’m coming!” I promise. “My flight is booked.”

I hang up the phone and shut down my laptop. I walk out of my office and past Dessislava at the reception desk.

“I’m going to the airport.”

“The airport is closed,” she reminds me.

“The flight to Israel is still listed for departure. You saw that. I will wait at the airport.”

The taxi drops me off outside the Departures Hall. The airport is nearly deserted. There are no taxis waiting for passengers, no family members waiting to greet arrivals. I see a few men standing near the security gate and hurry toward them.

El Al is noted for its scrupulous security measures, making it nearly impossible for terrorists to bypass the airline’s different stages of inspection. For Israelis the check-in procedure is more lenient. Especially at Sofia Airport. Because of my frequent flights on the Tel Aviv-Sofia route, the security agent at the desk recognizes me and passes me through quickly.

I look up at the Departures board. Flights to Budapest, Bucharest, and Paris are listed as cancelled. As are the flights scheduled for London, Paris, and Amsterdam. The sole departure scheduled as usual is the flight to Tel Aviv.

A bored-looking woman at the check-in counter hands me my boarding pass and I take the escalator upstairs to passport control. A few minutes later I am in the waiting area, the sole passenger waiting for a flight. I walk over to a coffee shop, order a cappuccino, and take a seat. I call my wife.

When Maya picks up, she is panting. “Where are you?” I ask.

“Where do you expect me to be? I’m at the hospital!”

“You’re giving birth?”

“Not yet, but soon. I’m on a bed, right next to the delivery room. The nurses are here; the doctor will be here soon. Where are you?”

“I’m at the airport. I’m on my way.”

And then I hear Maya’s drawn-out breaths, just like we had learned in Lamaze class. Take an organizing breath, focus your attention, slowly inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth. Sigh. Relax. Repeat.

“Hang in there,” I urge Maya before hanging up.

As the minutes pass, other passengers straggle into the waiting room. Israelis, like me, unwilling to accept a possibility that they won’t be able to get home, that El Al will stop flying even when the rest of Europe has shut down. Israelis who have seen, and conquered, hardships in the past and who are unwilling to accept defeat, no matter what the circumstances. And some of my compatriots, I assume, who see a flight in the wake of a volcano’s eruption as an impromptu adventure, one that will serve as a fitting way to mark the end of their visit to Bulgaria.

My fellow passengers and I cast anxious glances at the electronic board at the far end of the hall. No changes are listed but I wonder whether the flight will be on time. Whether it will take off at all.

I pace back and forth, thinking about Maya. Is she okay? Is she giving birth? Maybe she has already given birth? Will she be able to call me if she did? I should call her again but if she’s in labor, I don’t want to disturb her. I just spoke to her, but that was twenty minutes ago. I should wait until she calls me. I look at my phone repeatedly, willing it to ring. I can’t get on the flight without knowing.

“Flight 552 is now boarding,” the announcement comes, first in English and then in Bulgarian. The other passengers approach the counter and hand over their tickets and passports. The attendants look at the documents and then wave the passengers down the jetway to the plane.

Still I wait, at the back of the lounge. A family with two sleeping infants in baby strollers pushes past me, and then an elderly couple. Three young men burdened down by heavy backpacks. Two women with large bags, as if they’ve just returned from a major shopping spree. A group of five middle-aged men, laughing at each other’s jokes.

And then my phone rings. “Hello!” I cry, before even tapping it to answer. “Maya, is that you?”

“Daniel!” And then, total silence. I nearly scream in my impatience.

“Sir, we’re almost finished boarding,” the flight attendant alerts me from behind the gate.

I nod to her and look back at my phone. Have I lost the connection? What is going on?

“Daniel, we have a baby!” Maya cries, her excitement unmistakable despite her obvious exhaustion. “It’s a boy and he’s perfect!” Maya reassures me that our son has ten fingers and ten toes. “He’s beautiful, Daniel,” she says. “Please come home!”

“I’m a father!” I shout, causing the crew at the gate to look up with surprise.

“Sir, we are closing the gate now,” the clerk says impatiently. I am the only remaining passenger in the lounge.

“I’m a father,” I repeat. I hand her my boarding pass and passport.

As I walk past her, the clerk adds with a smile, “Congratulations on your baby.”

“Thank you,” I reply as I hurry toward the plane. No explanation has been given why the Israeli airline is flying when all the others have been grounded, but no explanation is needed. Nothing can stop me now, not even a lava-spurting, rock-throwing, earth-quaking volcano with an unpronounceable name. I am going home to see my wife and to meet my son!

– Ellis Shuman