Fly American from Provo to Boston

In our modern, hyper-connected world, there is a certain perverse delight to be taken in the utterly absurd ritual of air travel—from the labyrinthine complex of booking, "best time to book, one-way ticket or round-trip?" you might desperately ask yourself, to the contrived theater of TSA security screening. Perhaps nowhere is this process more delightfully baffling than when navigating the labyrinth of 'American', our national carrier, from the unassuming Provo, UT, to the hallowed city of Boston, MA. Buckle up, dear readers, for as intricate a journey as Odysseus's epic voyage home.

To begin with, the airline's site graciously offers you a collection of "flights" to your destination. Ah, flights: those ethereal voyages through the heavens, sullied by a symphony of screaming children and overpriced in-flight meals. Might you be enticed to part with your savings for their "cheapest flights" or do you dare hold out for their elusive "last-minute flights" which promise an intoxicating cocktail of adrenaline and potential bankruptcy?

Then, once your flight is chosen—non-stop if you're lucky, complete with layovers if you're less so—you begin the dreary task of selecting your class. Patio, veranda, sunroom? No, not quite. There are only four classes to accommodate your class: Economy, Premium Economy, Business, and First. Who could forget the sardine-like confines of Economy, where legroom is but a spectral suggestion, a phantom of human comfort? Or the flamboyant decadence of First Class, where gargantuan propeller hats are not only allowed but encouraged?

Let us not forget the serendipity of the company's baggage allowance, which seems to be inspired by ancient hieroglyphs or the whims of a demented oracle. "Two bags or three? Fourteen kilos or the weight of a small antelope?", one could just imagine the ticketing staffer musing.

The frequent flyer program holds the promise of a golden age just out of reach, a paradise for those loyal and brave enough to traverse the skies repeatedly, braving the incalculable wrath of turbulence or the immutable certainty of dry airplane sandwiches. The rewards are bountiful, for those patient and resilient enough to endure.

Once in-flight, the idea of services is held out with an irony so rich it could coax a smile from a stoic. Perhaps the airline has misinterpreted the term "service", we may never know. Shall we avoid talking about the flight cancellation policy? It seems as decipherable as the Rosetta Stone.

In short, dear travelers, our journey from Provo in UT to Boston, MA represents more than merely a physical voyage. It is a metaphysical journey, a testament to the human spirit's endurance in the face of exhausting norms and rituals of modern aviation. It recoils from simplicity and takes you on a Sisyphean trek, reminding us all that the thrill of travel resides not in the destination, but the journey.

Dear humans, go forth and conquer, or at the very least, survive. Prepare to face the Herculean effort of traversing the aircraft carrier’s labyrinth, for remember, not all those who wander from Provo to Boston are lost. I'd wish you luck, but you’re going to need more than that.