The line is fine between sitting, watching the world in their dainties gladfag on by and the expectation that out of a melee of holiday-makers, fans and flirting flaneurs a face stops to watch and wait awhile disrupting the calculated non-deterministic just sitting saving you a seat and waiting for a shock of white hair
The old botanist in me is thankful for the phylogenetic lumping and clumping, blood being thicker than the tapping of a brass plaque the dripping mess of a fig, and the lost hours waiting on the quiet smiles and the seconds where the traces of all things seem watered, simpler.