The freeway sign arrived in Los Angeles five days after I did. It appeared out of nowhere, a valiant attempt by one of its citizens to help drivers make sense of their city, just as I appeared in a silver Subaru, valiantly attempting to make sense of what were apparently not called “highways” but “freeways.” Not that you should ever refer to them that way, I was constantly reminded. “Just say the number,” a friend sighed—the route number, which I kept forgetting should always be prefaced with a “the,” a colloquialism my plain-speaking Midwestern brain couldn’t register. Nor could I comprehend being strapped into a car for hours a day, the sheer inhumanity of a Sigalert, a sweeping six-lane interchange as vast and impossible to navigate as the Pacific Ocean.
[From The Fake Freeway Sign that Became a Real Public Service – Design is a Verb – GOOD]