by TIM MCMANUS
The onslaught of garish orange signs starts interrupting the bucolic Germantown
Avenue scenery a few thousand feet before the approach comes into sight.
Blinking, foreboding, they scream “road closed,” building
a crescendo until three lonely barrels stand final sentry at the foot
of the bridge. Past their shadows and around the bend, chalky construction
dust mixes with diesel exhaust. Blown down the meandering span by the
breeze rising from the creek, it creates an oddly musky smell. The quiet
intersection —
