Altered Street Signs

Studying for the Italian patente has me hyper-aware of street signage. I start seeing rules everywhere painted on the road, hanging on poles, implied in the way people drive (or don’t). One rule that stuck with me, somewhere between right-of-way diagrams and trick questions about parking, was simple: you are not supposed to alter street signs!

Fair enough. Traffic signs are, after all, meant to be clear, consistent, and unambiguous. A shared visual language that keeps things moving and, ideally, prevents chaos.

And then we went for a walk in the old town of Cuneo and found on a few side streets were signs where someone had quietly and creatively ignored that rule. The signs in question were senso vietato (do not enter), direzione obbligatoria (mandatory direction), direzione consentita (allowed turn), divieto di sosta (no parking), and senso unico frontale (one way).

   

Left: Senso vietato and direzione obbligatoria.

Center left: Senso vietato.

Center right: Direzione consentita.

Right: Senso unico frontale.

Example of the alterations: A standard divieto di accesso (no entry) sign becomes a pillory holding a person bound by their hands and head. Another no entry sign featured a suited figure, head obscured by the white bar, giving off a kind of anonymous, noir presence. One no entry sign showed a bent figure carrying the bar like a burden. And yet another had a figure painting out of the sign itself, as if frustration had turned literal.

These weren’t acts of vandalism in the usual sense. They felt more like small interventions where someone looked at an impersonal, authoritative symbol and decided to make it more human.

Which brings us back to language.

In a recent post, we talked about how Italian often prefers the impersonal: È vietato, si prega di, divieto di…. The impersonal comes across as facts, not commands. “No entry” becomes “Entry is forbidden.” No finger-pointing, just a statement of reality.

These altered signs flip that dynamic, just a bit. They reintroduce a subject. Suddenly there is someone there ducking under, carrying, resisting, nibbling at the rule. The impersonal becomes personal again.

There’s something disarming about seeing a rigid, standardized system loosened just enough to allow a bit of personality through. Not enough to confuse the meaning—you still know you can’t go that way—but enough to create a small pause and smile.

Of course, the patente book would not approve. Somewhere in its pages, this is clearly filed under non si fa. And yet, walking those streets, it was hard not to feel that something was gained in the breaking of the rule.

  

Senso vietato and Divieto di sosta signs in Cuneo.

Two Phones South of Milan

The New Responsibilities ~ Free Flow  ~ Two Phones South of Milan ~ 

The Black Box Problem ~ Optimization Addiction ~ The Navigator's Seat

 

On road trips, my role has always been navigator.

Traditionally this meant entering the destination, maybe checking traffic once or twice, and then spending long stretches staring out the window commenting occasionally on abandoned buildings and puzzling out Italian road signs.

Not anymore.

Somewhere on a recent drive between Bergamo and Cuneo, while holding an iPhone showing one route and an Android phone showing another, I realized my navigation job has changed.

The old-me navigator dealt in directions. The modern-me navigator arbitrates between information systems. 

Driving around the south and east of Milan on the A58.

The New Responsibilities

The change announced itself gradually over the course of a weekend trip. Each new layer of technology brought with it another tiny responsibility, another tab to keep open, another system to monitor “just in case”.

The first big shift came from renting an electric car for the first time. We rented through SIXT and suddenly charging became part of the trip planning itself. Not difficult exactly, but present in a way gasoline rarely is anymore.

As navigator, I found myself checking range estimates, locating charging stations, and calculating whether we had enough battery to comfortably make it through the next stretch.

Gas stations have become mentally invisible to us over decades of driving. Electric cars bring infrastructure awareness back into consciousness. You start noticing distances differently. Elevation changes matter. Speeds matter. A casual detour suddenly might have consequences.

In some ways it made travel feel more tangible again. But it also gives the navigator homework.

Free Flow

Then there was the autostrada A33 between Asti and Cuneo.

On this stretch of autostrada, traditional toll booths have been replaced by a “free flow” system. You drive through without stopping while cameras record your license plate. Convenient in theory. Invisible infrastructure at work.

Except now the navigator has another task: remembering to go online later and pay.

And not immediately either, because the license plate often takes a day or more to appear in the system.

So now the navigator keeps a mental ledger of:

• If we paid and if not setting a reminder for tomorrow.
• Remembering the time we used the road.
• Keeping the rental car license plate on hand to identify the car in the system.
• Remembering what app to use to pay.
• Figuring out if we should just go ahead and create (yet another) account or just pay as an anonymous user.

Somewhere along the way, road trips acquired administrative tasks and follow-up.

Two Phones South of Milan

The moment that crystallized all this came on our return drive from Cuneo to Bergamo.

We were south of Milan traveling east on the A50 and had two options: continue north toward Milan on the A1, or swing south on the A1 to catch the A58 — the Tangenziale Est Esterna di Milano (TEEM) — a wider loop that is longer in distance but often faster in practice because it avoids Milan traffic.

Google Maps insisted the A58 was closed. 

Not congested. Closed.

Every time we selected the route, Google tried to reroute us away from it. We were still a few kilometers away from the decision point but me-the-navigator felt pressure to make a good decision. Trust Google Maps?

Apple Maps showed the A58 as perfectly normal. The road signs on the autostrada also suggested no issues. And traffic reports sounded fine. (We ignored Google Maps and went on A58 and it was just fine.)

And it was at that point I realized I was no longer navigating. I was conducting a small transportation fact-checking operation real time. I had an iPhone in one hand with Google Maps open, an Android phone in the other checking the same route, and meanwhile I was consulting the official A58 website.

The navigator’s role now includes determining which machine/service/system is lying least.

The Black Box Problem

Part of the navigator's unease is that modern navigation systems are black boxes.

We know they ingest traffic patterns, road reports, historical data, closures, accidents, speed estimates, weather, and probably the emotional state of nearby commuters. Then they produce a route with an aura of mathematical certainty.

But the systems are always changing.

A route suggestion that worked one way six months ago likely behaves differently now. Small interface changes might alter behavior. New code is rolled out silently behind the scenes. Priorities shift, for example, for calculating routes for fuel efficiency. We assume determinism because maps look authoritative, but the logic underneath is fluid.

And unlike paper maps, these systems don’t simply describe the world. They actively shape our decisions in real time. If we had followed Google Map's advice and not taken the A58, we would have ended up in a lot more traffic and an hour more of driving. How many people made that decision? Did Google Map's error in this case (and I think it's safe to call it that) cause more traffic?

Today navigation is about dealing with a competing layering of realities:

• the car’s navigation system
• the phone’s navigation system
• traffic websites
• road authority websites
• our own common sense
• and finally, the actual road in front of us

Sometimes they agree. Sometimes they absolutely do not.

Optimization Addiction

Of course, there is an easy response to all this: pick a route and stop worrying.

And honestly, if you surrender to that approach, modern navigation is wonderful. Voice guidance, live traffic, estimated arrival times, and charging locations. It’s objectively easier than unfolding giant paper maps across your knees somewhere near Piacenza.

But modern systems tempt us with optimization like:

• Save seven minutes.
• Avoid congestion.
• Faster route available.
• Charge now instead of later.
• Traffic ahead.
• Incident reported.
• Recalculating.

Every route now feels like a live market constantly updating itself.

Humans are not particularly good at ignoring optimization opportunities once they are presented. Especially not when the difference between choices is quantified in glowing blue lines and precise minute counts.

So the navigator stays engaged. Watching. Comparing. Verifying.

Not because the systems are bad, but because they are dynamic.

The Navigator’s Seat

There is also something social happening.

While the driver concentrates on the road, the navigator increasingly manages the surrounding digital ecosystem:

• replying to messages,
• confirming arrival times,
• checking traffic,
• looking up charging stations,
• paying tolls,
• cross-referencing maps,
• interpreting alerts.

Sometimes as navigator, I'm also answering the driver's text messages while trying to sound enough like the driver that nobody notices.

The navigator used to help you get somewhere. Now the navigator helps decide which version of reality to trust. 

Music Album Covers with Televisions on Them

36 albums covers featuring TVs on them.

Ah, the good old television. TV, tube, boob tube, telly, idiot box. A piece of furniture, a glowing shrine, background noise, babysitter, cultural glue, and eventually just another rectangle in our lives competing for attention.

The word “television” itself was introduced by Russian engineer Konstantin Perskyi at the 1900 Paris Exposition during the International Congress of Electricity. He combined Greek and Latin roots into a neat term meaning, roughly, “seeing at a distance,” replacing clunkier technical descriptions floating around at the time. It was the perfect debut venue: a world fair dedicated to showing off the future through electricity, machinery, and spectacle.

In this album cover mosaic, we collected examples of televisions appearing on album covers in all their forms: glowing consoles, portable sets, static-filled screens, rabbit ears, surveillance monitors, and late-night blue light. TVs on album covers can signal comfort, alienation, mass culture, boredom, nostalgia, or just the simple fact that for decades the television sat at the center of domestic life.

As usual with these mosaics, we’re not trying to be exhaustive. There are plenty of examples we missed, forgot, or perhaps once saw at 1 a.m. illuminated by the flicker of a CRT screen.

01 Foretaste – "Terrorist TV" (2008)
02 Lichen – "The End is Near" (2018)
03 Graham Parker – "Imaginary Television" (2010)
04 Cocksure – "T.V.M.A.L.S.V." (2014)
05 Dramarama – "Color TV" (2020)
06 Frank Zappa – "A Token Of His Extreme Soundtrack" (2013)

07 Kacy & Clayton, Marlon Williams – "Plastic Bouquet" (2020)
08 Kiyotaka Sugiyama – "Kona Weather" (1987)
09 Roger Waters – "Amused to Death" (1992)
10 The Bees – "TV Mentality" (1979)
11 DelicTrips. – "Motivated Abstract" (2017)
12 The Cars – "Moving in Stereo The Best of The Cars" (2016)

13 Sweet – "Waters Edge" (1980)
14 Berlin – "Pleasure Victim" (1982)
15 Family – "Bandstand" (1972)
16 Benny Golson – "Tune In, Turn On The Hippest Commercials Of The Sixties" (1999)
17 Lizzy Borden – "Visual Lies" (1987)
18 Tai Verdes – "TV" (2021)

19 A Flock of Seagulls – "A Flock of Seagulls" (1982)
20 Elton John – "The Fox" (1981)
21 George Harrison – "Brainwashed" (2002)
22 Joni Mitchell – "Wild Things Run Fast" (1982)
23 Proctor and Bergman – "TV Or Not TV A Video Vaudeville In Two Acts" (1973)
24 Various Artists – "100 Greatest TV Themes" (2011)

25 AC-DC – "Blow Up Your Video" (1988)
26 The Tubes – "Remote Control" (1979)
27 Holger Czukay – "Movies" (1979)
28 Monty Python – "Monty Pythons Flying Circus" (1970)
29 Rebel Kicks – "A Portrait of Man, Pt 1" (2020)
30 Lou Reed – "New Sensations" (1984)

31 Rush – "Power Windows" (1985)
32 Harry Nilsson – "That's The Way It Is" (1976)
33 Fish – "Vigil in a Wilderness of Mirrors" (1990)
34 World Party – "Private Revolution" (1986)
35 Tom Jones – "Reload" (1999)
36 Randy Newman – "12 Songs" (1970)

La Dolce Metà

Showing your sweet side and your better half.

I meant to ask our friend and Italian barista: “where is your better half?” referring to her husband. What came out of my mouth was: dov’è il tuo dolce lato. That was followed by laughter. Oops! I got burned by a false friend and a too-literal translation. The correct way is to say la tua dolce metà.

“Dolce lato” sounds like an overly sweet new dessert. “Dolcelatte” is a similar to gorgonzola. So maybe I asked her where her cheese was?

Other traps include:

• Sono freddo — “I’m a cold person” VS Ho freddo — “I’m cold”. Italian uses avere (to have) for physical states.

• Prendo una foto — “I’ll take this photo” (with me, almost like grab it) VS Faccio una foto - “I’ll take a photo” (take a picture).

• Ti ho perso — “I lost you” (in the crowd, e.g.) VS Mi sei mancato — “I missed you”.

They all share the same pattern because you recognize the words, you trust the structure and the sentence is technically understandable. But it lands…off.

Foraging Aglio Orsino in Fiobbio and Using it Fresh Pasta with Friends

Some meals start in the kitchen. Others start in the woods.

Our day began with a walk near Fiobbio, a small village on the slopes of Monte Misma in the Val Seriana area above Bergamo. We’ve done several hikes in and around Misma. See: A Walk from Albino to Bergamo via Monte Misma, Monte Misma – Just Outside Our Window, and Le Vie di Misma - Trails 511 and 510.

  
Left: Algio orsino (or bear garlic) growing along the Lujo stream.
Center: A walk in Fiobbio, Italy to collect algio orsino (Allium ursinum).
Right: Fresh ravioli stuffed with ricotta and aglio orsino, decorated with pesto made with aglio orsino.

From our friends’ house, we set out on foot toward the Lujo stream, baskets in hand and a clear objective: find aglio orsino (Allium ursinum), also known as wild or bear garlic.

Early spring is the moment for it. In damp woodland, the plant spreads in thick green carpets, announcing itself before you even see it. The air carries that unmistakable garlicky scent. Crush a leaf between your fingers and the smell intensifies instantly; a small chemistry experiment happening right there on the trail.

That chemistry is part of what makes aglio orsino so interesting. In the intact leaf, sulfur-containing compounds like alliin are stored separately from an enzyme called alliinase. When the leaf is cut or crushed, the enzyme converts alliin into allicin, the compound responsible for the sharp, pungent garlic smell. Allicin is powerful but unstable, and when heated it quickly transforms into milder sulfur compounds that soften the flavor.

This detail became important later.

After collecting a generous bundle along the stream, we made our way back, stopping briefly at Ca’ La Stongia before returning to Elena and Matteo’s kitchen. The plan was simple: fresh pasta and whatever we could make from the wild garlic we had gathered.

The kitchen quickly turned into a small workshop. Flour on the counter, eggs cracked into a well, dough kneaded and rolled through the pasta machine. We made two pastas: tagliatelle and ravioli. The ravioli were filled with ricotta and our freshly foraged aglio orsino, and dressed with a pesto made from the same leaves.

But first we did something that might seem counterintuitive for garlic lovers: we boiled the leaves briefly. The reason goes back to that chemistry. Heat disables the enzyme that produces more allicin and breaks down the allicin already present. The result is a gentler flavor—still garlicky, but greener and more rounded. Our friends had tried using the leaves raw the week before and found the result overpowering; a quick blanch made the ingredient much easier to work with.

Cooking together has its own rhythm. Someone rolls pasta while someone else shapes ravioli. Someone tastes the filling and adds a little more salt. Conversations jump from food to walks to whatever else comes up. Hours pass without anyone noticing.

In the end, the table filled with bowls of pasta: ravioli with ricotta and wild garlic, tagliatelle with pesto alla trapanese. Dessert followed—pastiera we brought to share and a colomba waiting on the counter.

It’s satisfying to eat something you’ve gathered yourself, but the real pleasure is the chain of events behind the meal: the walk through damp woods, the smell of crushed leaves, the small bit of chemistry that transforms a sharp plant into something delicate, and the shared work of turning it all into lunch.

Meals that start in the woods tend to taste better.

Photos

  

Left: Chiesa di Sant'Antonio da Padova in Fiobbio, Italy.

Center: Allium ursinum flowers (edible but we didn't use) in our pesto.
Right: Allium ursinum leaves.

 

Left: Fresh ricotta at Ca' La Stongia in Fiobbio, Italy.

Right: Selling pesto algio orsino: not thanks we are making it ourselves!

 

Allium ursinum (aglio orsino in Italian) growing alongside the Lujo (stream).

   

Making ravioli. Rolling out pasta. Making filling with ricotta and bear garlic (parboiled), and putting filling inside rolled out pasta dough.

 

Fresh ravioli stuffed with ricotta and wild garlic. Ready to be boiled and plated with spots of wild garlic pesto and decorated with primrose and violet flowers. 

 

Tagliatelle was also made and served with pesto alla trapanese.