The other night at 9 Cento, I met a gentleman who once worked in “signage.”
A job he’d taken after early retirement, it amounted to repricing merchandize.

Maybe this explains why he and I shared a good laugh over the signs in Spoleto.
When you look at them, there’s simply no telling which way they want you to go.

This morning I imagined he’d enjoy the bikers being had at the sign’s expense.
They looked and looked, crosschecking their apps, as if to make it make sense.