Fly Southwest: PWM to Indianapolis, Indiana

Who amongst us has not been ensnared in the endearing web of flying misadventures, packed absolutely to the brim with overflowing enthusiasm and a head full of “rules of the sky”? Welcoming you, dear comrade, to the grand saga of flights, airfare, and the deceptively captivating game of musical chairs—also known as booking a seat on your flight.

Enter our protagonist—the humble, ever-resilient Southwest, offering you an irresistible offer, a gallant knight clad in blue and red. Journey with us from the undefined of Portland to the Midwestern charm of Indianapolis. One-way? Round-trip? Layover wearing thin your patience, or a non-stop dash to your destination? Ah, the plenitude of narrative variations, each with its own enchanting pros and poetic foibles!

Direct flights they proclaim, an arrow straight from Portland to Indianapolis, carved through the fabric of reality. But let's not pretend it's that simple. You're attempting to navigate the labyrinthine, time-bending vortex that is the world of flying—direct flights are as elusive as a straightforward plot twist in a twisty, turny novel.

Then, dare we venture into the hinterlands of seemingly cheap flights, the scourge of last-minute flights or—dare we say it aloud?—the red-eye flight. A pleasant, reverie-stricken slumber in the comfort of your home usurped by a cramped seat and the relentless drone of the plane? The word 'masochist' springs to mind.

They tantalize us with visions of luxurious first-class quarters, standing as bastions of elitism and sophistication in a world of cramped economy class blues, mocking silently in their lofty hierarchy. And oh, the baggage allowance—a tape measure to one's travel indulgence. A milligram overweight? Unthinkable. 'Frequent flyer,' they label us, with a nod and a wink; a monicker begrudgingly erupts a smile, only mildly muted by the harsh reality of our current in-flight services.

A layover, you say? Clapping with starry-eyed, naive vigor at the word, "connecting flights." A layover—a pause, delivering a tantalizing illusion of luxury. Only to lead us into a medley of overpriced airport coffee, an eternal sibling squabble of 'occupied power plugs' while vying for a meager recharge, and searching with growing desperation for a quiet corner to nurse our jet-lagged souls.

International flights, domestic flights—oh, the flight duration—the tale changes with the weather, playing the whimsical pied piper leading us on a merry dance around world time zones. Making us question things—profound things—like 'why does my clock watch say 3 AM when my body profoundly argues it's 4 in the afternoon?'

Flight cancellation policy—the miniature grimoire of endless ifs and buts, sprouting to rival an old, gnarled tree. Dare you decypher it without the unforgiving harshness of a magnifying lens, and the patience of a saint?

Airline reviews, though? A many-faceted entity, they stand along the spectrum of "Best Experience EVER" to an alarming "Never Again!" Leaving us, the humble flyers, to decipher truth from hyperbole. Usually in vain.

So you see, dear friend, the carnival of Southwest isn't as straightforward as it seems. Do pack a little intrigue, some humor, lots of patience, and most importantly—a sense of surreal adventure. If you've managed to navigate, decipher, and ultimately triumph in this strange game of puzzles we call flying, then join the club. We are millions strong and growing, a strange band of wanderers navigating the haunted forest that is the world of aviation.

Let's hear it, then, for the next escapade—the fascinating, if somewhat frustrating journey, from the undefined wonder of Portland to the heartland of the industrious Indianapolis. Bon Voyage!