Fly Southwest: MHT to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

Oh, the unfathomable joy of the nomadic soul, forever seeking the thrill of discovery, the novelty of unfamiliar terrains, and the intoxicating pleasure of last-minute flights! As an erstwhile knight of the road myself, nothing bewitches my heart like whispering sweet nothings into the ears of fellow travelers about the arcane, and frequently ludicrous art of air travel. Today, I turn my critical eyeglasses towards the charmingly arbitrary vagaries of a Southwest flight from distant undefined in Manchester to the sultry tropics of Myrtle Beach.

Now you might ask, why Southwest? Well, dear reader, apart from the disarmingly allure of "cheap flights", prying truth from the clenching jaws of Corporate America is no mean feat. And let's face it, in the modern age, watching the spartan economy class adorned with uniformed flight attendants wielding drink carts with military precision qualifies as performance art.

Southwest flights, bathed in garish, gallant orange and heartening blue, inspire a sense of adventure that one might find distressingly absent in the humdrum of everyday existence. We are talking "non-stop" flights here, dear voyager, a term crafted solely to make us ordinary citizens feel like rock stars on a world tour, minus the guitars and panoramic applause.

And who, pray tell, is the devilish genius who coined "direct flights?" A term that shimmers with the promise of pathbreaking efficiency and swift delivery, while primarily serving the purpose of convincing us to part ways with our perfectly hard-earned capital in the name of convenience and time management.

They'll tell you about the jealously guarded secrets of the "best time to book". Hear them speak enticingly about dawn, dusk, solstices, and equinoxes, spinning a dramatic tale that rivals ancient astrology. They will draw you into a labyrinth, dear reader, a sacrificial altar at the hands of the unforgiving god of Airfare, where any path navigated without expertise will lead to…well, bankruptcy.

My fervor, however, rises to a crescendo as I broach the glorious, labyrinthine world of the "Mileage program". A concept so convoluted, so steeped in jargon, that it makes quantum physics seem like child's play! They lure you with visions of first-class experiences, luscious leather seats, and unacceptable amounts of legroom, all accumulating radiantly within your grasp as you traversed the sky in that euphoric state reserved exclusively for 'Frequent flyers'.

Now the uninitiated may stumble upon the humble phrase 'Baggage allowance' and think it a straightforward, even generous term. Oh, the naivety! Don't be fooled! Mere mortals have spent entire lifetimes attempting to decipher the obtuse hieroglyphs of baggage rules. The energy one spends trying to fold, squash and stuff clothes into an ersatz representation of a suitcase borders on Olympian. Which brings us to the ‘Flight cancellation policy’ – a complex, Machiavellian ballet of logistics and legalities designed to offer assistance, yet subtly designed to test your four years of law school. So read the fine print, dear wayfarer and don the cloak of skepticism, for it may very well save you from bitter heartache.

Thus, dear friend, as you take flight from the misty haven of Manchester to glittering Myrtle Beach, remember this: Every 'in-flight service', every announcement, every 'airline review', is as much a figment of the elaborate theater of air travel as it is about reaching your destination. And for the love of all things airborne, hold on to your sense of humor. After all, it's only flying.