On a mild Sunday afternoon, I took my coffee to Patterson Park, expecting the kind of simple pleasure that urban life is supposed to offer: a quiet bench, a bit of sun and maybe the chance to people-watch in peace. I walked for 15 minutes before I found a bench that wasn’t broken, occupied or removed entirely. And as I sat, I realized something that had been slowly bothering me for years: Baltimore is quietly getting rid of places to simply be.

The humble bench may not seem like much, but it’s one of the most democratic features a city can offer. Anyone, regardless of income, housing status or job title, can use it. You don’t have to pay rent on it. You don’t have to buy a drink to stay. It doesn’t ask how long you’ll be there. In a world that constantly monetizes space, a public bench is an act of generosity.

And yet, they’re vanishing. Not all at once, and not always explicitly, but slowly and intentionally. You can see it in parks where benches once lined walkways and now appear sporadically, if at all. You see it at bus stops where the only option is to stand. You see it outside libraries and community centers, where seating is removed “for maintenance” and never returns.

What’s replacing them? Often, it’s nothing. Sometimes it’s decorative landscaping that looks nice in a grant report but does little for a tired body. In some cases, it’s “hostile architecture” — metal spikes on ledges, curved or sloped benches, armrests placed specifically to prevent lying down. These designs send a clear message: Move along. Don’t linger. Don’t rest.

The justification is almost always the same: loitering, vandalism or most often, homelessness. City planners and business groups argue that seating invites the “wrong” kind of presence. The fear is that a bench becomes a bed, or that rest becomes residence. But criminalizing stillness isn’t a solution to homelessness. It’s a performance of cleanliness — an attempt to erase poverty from sight without addressing its causes.

Let’s be honest: Benches aren’t the problem. The problem is a lack of shelter, a lack of affordable housing and a lack of political will to do something about either. Removing seating doesn’t change any of that. It just makes the city less livable for everyone, including seniors, people with disabilities, pregnant women and the many service workers who spend their days walking and commuting on foot.

Baltimore deserves better than this. We are a city of neighborhoods, stoops and shared corners. Public seating is part of that legacy — a small thing with big implications. It creates spaces where communities gather, strangers exchange greetings and street performers can draw a crowd. It’s where kids eat ice cream after school, where dog walkers take a break, where someone in crisis might catch their breath and consider their next step.

When we remove benches, we’re not just changing the landscape. We’re changing who the city is for.

Some cities are moving in a different direction. In Helsinki, public seating is treated as essential infrastructure. In Barcelona, design guidelines require benches every 50 meters along pedestrian routes. Even New York City, often accused of being indifferent to comfort, has invested in bus stop seating and aging-friendly rest areas. These aren’t acts of charity. They’re smart, humane planning choices.

Baltimore could do the same. A city-wide seating audit would be a good first step — to assess where benches are lacking and where they’ve quietly disappeared. We could set minimum requirements for public seating near transit stops, schools, and hospitals. We could even explore community-designed benches, built by local artists or students, turning rest into a canvas for pride.

Yes, benches invite all kinds of people. That’s the point. The goal shouldn’t be to filter out “undesirables,” but to design public spaces that welcome everyone — safely, humanely and with dignity.

There’s an old idea in urban planning called the “eyes on the street” theory. It argues that cities are safer and healthier when people are present — sitting, watching, living. Benches are part of that fabric. They keep cities human.

So next time you’re walking through your neighborhood and notice how few places there are to sit, ask yourself: What kind of city are we building? One that invites presence — or one that pushes it away?

Baltimore has the chance to choose the former. Let’s bring back the benches.