In Barcelona benches are not primarily designed for taking a five minute rest when out shopping or for sitting and eating an ice-cream with a friend.
Benches belong to the señoras.
Packs of them congregate on a daily basis at their chosen bench which they occupy together for hours at a time; gossiping, nodding wisely and watching the world go by.
Peaceful. Knowing. moulded into the woodwork.
You’ll know when you are sitting on their bench when you feel an icy stare on your back, followed by the slightly impatient tap of a walking stick or even a sharp throaty cough. It is inadvisable to take on the challenge ... if you do the hairs on the back of your neck will soon begin to tingle and your face will flush red until you feel like all your innermost secrets have been learnt by those steely ent-like eyes behind you, only in order to be hummed later from pack to pack, spread like sticky honey throughout the city.
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