Southwest just won my Favorite Airline award. It wasn’t because they offered me open seating, no baggage fees, serious senior discounts, and lots of non-stop destination-to-destination routing. It wasn’t because their pilots managed to evade a lot of nasty weather on my trip with slingshot takeoffs between thunderheads, cruising at 41,000 feet, or smooth, low-altitude approach patterns.

It’s because Southwest tells jokes. I was on the late-morning flight to Baltimore, and as we were getting settled the flight attendant was saying, “Should this flight suddenly become a cruise, reach under your seat and retrieve the life vest. Pull the red handle to inflate the vest. If that doesn’t work, breath into this red tube. And if that doesn’t work, well,” she paused, “it just isn’t your day.”

Chuckles and a couple of whistles. Fortunately, there was no singing. As we taxied to the end of the runway, she was back. “We’ve been cleared for takeoff, please make sure your seat belts are fastened. The pilot say he’s going to try something new.”

Lots of laughter this time, some of it nervous.

Founded in Dallas in 1967, Southwest has compiled a lexicon of one-liners to make you forget that being jammed together with 200 strangers in a space the size of an orchestra pit can be momentarily amusing. Southwest puts more than 550 planes in the air every day to some 85 U.S. destinations and that now includes Portland, with one catch – you have to go to Baltimore. That means you’ll end up at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, so kindly heed this advice: Don’t go hungry like I did. Southwest’s solution to insipid airplane food is, mostly – don’t serve any food at all.

Late on a Sunday night, I surveyed the various eateries on BWI’s Concourse B with rare interest. I passed by a Mexican restaurant that had clearly made an executive decision to let customers’ sleeves keep the tables clean. Ditto, a Greek joint that had so much food on the floor behind the counter I worried that was part of the preparation. At a pizza stand, I asked if they had pepperoni and the kid stared at me like I expected him to spell it. There was a sushi place, but I know two people who almost died eating sushi and they were served at white tablecloth restaurants. Raw fish from an airport kiosk? I settled for a party-sized bag of white cheddar popcorn. Flying is dangerous enough.

Not if you’re laughing all the way, reminds Southwest. On the final leg home, the flight attendant advised us that we would be flying through broken clouds. But they were trying to get them fixed before we arrived. Ha ha. She had more to say about the life vests. “If you’re traveling with a child, put your vest on first, and then help your child. If you’re traveling with several children, you might want to start with the most promising one and work your way down.”

The couple sitting in front of me nodded at each other as if that was exactly the kind of smart, actionable intelligence they’d been searching for.

One thing Southwest hasn’t been able to improve is the luggage handling system in Portland. Mostly because there isn’t one. That is, there just aren’t enough flights for the Jetport to employ luggage-handling personnel. Each airline is responsible for unloading their own bags and placing them on one of the three conveyor belts that snake though the dreary baggage retrieval area always, it seems, packed with weary passengers. I once waited 48 minutes after a 46-minute flight from Newark. Even the new Samsung digital displays above the creaky belts don’t tell you which one will, hopefully, finally return your luggage. Rather, flickering advertisements promise, for instance, you’ll love the “Captivating Glazes of Georgetown Pottery.” It was 1 a.m. I know I glazed over.

My bag was 37th. Yes, I counted. It weighed only a couple more pounds from absorbing the sky-opening downpour that was taking place on the tarmac outside, and featured no new tears or missing fasteners from blasting through space in a pressurized metal tube.

As those who fly know modern air travel is roughly equivalent to, say, pre-war bus service in French Guyana. This is the space-sensitive industry that gave the world bathrooms where you can’t make a full turn without touching at least one contaminated surface. From polluted ice cubes to reservations that don’t actually guarantee you a seat, this is the business that earned its mantra: We’re not happy until you’re not happy.

Southwest is an upgrade. No joke. Only once during my trip did I wonder if we had landed, or been shot down. Plus they’re clever enough to offer, at no extra charge, a smile when and where a smile is worth a little more. I’m still smiling at our flight attendant’s final quip, “Welcome to Portland, Maine, ladies and gentlemen. Set your watches back 10 years.”

Rick Roberts (reroberts46@yahoo.com) is a veteran of Boston’s advertising community and the U.S. Army. He lives in Windham. He is author of two books, “Digital Darling,” recently honored at the New England Book Festival; and the boomer rant, “I Was Much Happier When Everything I Owned Was In The Back Seat Of My Volkswagen.” Both are available through bookstores, Amazon.com, or visit BabyBoomerPress.com.

Southwest just won my Favorite Airline award. It wasn’t because they offered me open seating, no baggage fees, serious senior discounts, and lots of non-stop destination-to-destination routing. It wasn’t because their pilots managed to evade a lot of nasty weather on my trip with slingshot takeoffs between thunderheads, cruising at 41,000 feet, or smooth, low-altitude approach patterns.

It’s because Southwest tells jokes. I was on the late-morning flight to Baltimore, and as we were getting settled the flight attendant was saying, “Should this flight suddenly become a cruise, reach under your seat and retrieve the life vest. Pull the red handle to inflate the vest. If that doesn’t work, breath into this red tube. And if that doesn’t work, well,” she paused, “it just isn’t your day.”

Chuckles and a couple of whistles. Fortunately, there was no singing. As we taxied to the end of the runway, she was back. “We’ve been cleared for takeoff, please make sure your seat belts are fastened. The pilot say he’s going to try something new.”

Lots of laughter this time, some of it nervous.

Founded in Dallas in 1967, Southwest has compiled a lexicon of one-liners to make you forget that being jammed together with 200 strangers in a space the size of an orchestra pit can be momentarily amusing. Southwest puts more than 550 planes in the air every day to some 85 U.S. destinations and that now includes Portland, with one catch – you have to go to Baltimore. That means you’ll end up at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, so kindly heed this advice: Don’t go hungry like I did. Southwest’s solution to insipid airplane food is, mostly – don’t serve any food at all.

Late on a Sunday night, I surveyed the various eateries on BWI’s Concourse B with rare interest. I passed by a Mexican restaurant that had clearly made an executive decision to let customers’ sleeves keep the tables clean. Ditto, a Greek joint that had so much food on the floor behind the counter I worried that was part of the preparation. At a pizza stand, I asked if they had pepperoni and the kid stared at me like I expected him to spell it. There was a sushi place, but I know two people who almost died eating sushi and they were served at white tablecloth restaurants. Raw fish from an airport kiosk? I settled for a party-sized bag of white cheddar popcorn. Flying is dangerous enough.

Not if you’re laughing all the way, reminds Southwest. On the final leg home, the flight attendant advised us that we would be flying through broken clouds. But they were trying to get them fixed before we arrived. Ha ha. She had more to say about the life vests. “If you’re traveling with a child, put your vest on first, and then help your child. If you’re traveling with several children, you might want to start with the most promising one and work your way down.”

The couple sitting in front of me nodded at each other as if that was exactly the kind of smart, actionable intelligence they’d been searching for.

One thing Southwest hasn’t been able to improve is the luggage handling system in Portland. Mostly because there isn’t one. That is, there just aren’t enough flights for the Jetport to employ luggage-handling personnel. Each airline is responsible for unloading their own bags and placing them on one of the three conveyor belts that snake though the dreary baggage retrieval area always, it seems, packed with weary passengers. I once waited 48 minutes after a 46-minute flight from Newark. Even the new Samsung digital displays above the creaky belts don’t tell you which one will, hopefully, finally return your luggage. Rather, flickering advertisements promise, for instance, you’ll love the “Captivating Glazes of Georgetown Pottery.” It was 1 a.m. I know I glazed over.

My bag was 37th. Yes, I counted. It weighed only a couple more pounds from absorbing the sky-opening downpour that was taking place on the tarmac outside, and featured no new tears or missing fasteners from blasting through space in a pressurized metal tube.

As those who fly know modern air travel is roughly equivalent to, say, pre-war bus service in French Guyana. This is the space-sensitive industry that gave the world bathrooms where you can’t make a full turn without touching at least one contaminated surface. From polluted ice cubes to reservations that don’t actually guarantee you a seat, this is the business that earned its mantra: We’re not happy until you’re not happy.

Southwest is an upgrade. No joke. Only once during my trip did I wonder if we had landed, or been shot down. Plus they’re clever enough to offer, at no extra charge, a smile when and where a smile is worth a little more. I’m still smiling at our flight attendant’s final quip, “Welcome to Portland, Maine, ladies and gentlemen. Set your watches back 10 years.”

Rick Roberts (reroberts46@yahoo.com) is a veteran of Boston’s advertising community and the U.S. Army. He lives in Windham. He is author of two books, “Digital Darling,” recently honored at the New England Book Festival; and the boomer rant, “I Was Much Happier When Everything I Owned Was In The Back Seat Of My Volkswagen.” Both are available through bookstores, Amazon.com, or visit BabyBoomerPress.com.