“Maybe It’ll Be Fine Eventually” And Other Impressions of the New Arena

Apr 6

The westbound traffic started jamming up on Liberty Street at Abercorn last Friday evening, the sun spilling out a syrupy, haaay it’s the weekend glow as it slid down the sky with a slow shimmy.

“Maybe it’ll clear up after this stoplight,” murmured Mark as my little old lady Mercedes dodged the long shadows of horse carriages, pedicabs, and pedestrians to inch towards MLK Blvd., only to see the snake of brake lights ahead on Louisville Road.

“Hmm, nope, no escape. Welcome to the big city, folks.”

We’d left the house just shy of 6pm to scoop up our friend Marilyn Phister and head to the Enmarket Arena to see comedian John Mulaney’s show at 7pm, giving ourselves an hour to make what is normally a ten-minute drive. Yet here we were, puttering along like podunk amateurs.

“Maybe we should’ve Ubered,” I sighed, knowing full well that it would not have made this any faster, plus I hate it when I can’t control the radio.

“Maybe we should’ve walked,” said Marilyn, observing clusters of millennials striding by us in ugly shoes and shredded mom jeans, to-go cups in hand.

In an act of heroic forethought, Mark had purchased an advance parking spot in “Lot G,” which due to the lack of signage, may or may not have lain somewhere in the direction the car funnel was leading. We had no choice but to follow our fate onto Stiles Avenue, where legions of police officers and city workers in neon vests performed individual interpretative dances meant to direct thousands of cars into various paved and dirt lots, a chaotic endeavor reminiscent of what happens when you pour a La Croix on a fire ant hill. (It was a long two years of entertaining ourselves, OK?)

As we resigned ourselves to missing the opening act, I finally caught my first glimpse of the economic savior that has taken almost 20 years, four mayors, and $165 million taxpayer dollars to complete. Sure, I’d seen the fancy renderings but was not prepared for the shock of so many stark corners rising out of unlandscaped concrete. Incongruous with the handsome brick ruins of the historic Water Works building it faces, the long-heralded new arena appeared less promised architectural marvel and more squat cube slapdashed with shiny elements, like it was built by a murder of crows raised in a suburban strip mall.

Against the empty warehouses and neglected bungalows of West Savannah, it looks like an airport terminal fell off a SpaceX rocket. Or maybe an airport parking garage, of which the actual arena has none.

“Maybe we’ll vote to build one after everyone sees how successful the arena is,” suggested Mark optimistically.

“Maybe the other local gas station mogul will name it,” I shrugged, thinking Fancy Parker’s Parking Garage has a nice ring to it.

Maybe, though it surely wouldn’t be until after the traffic issues get solved, which is estimated to take at least two years, a timeline brought to us by the same entities that took 25 years to build the Truman Parkway. As much as I respect high ambitions, I’m a teeny bit worried that the whole Canal District Master Plan—of which the arena is only the first massive project—lays a few bars beyond our capacity as a city, considering our logistical challenges in paving a single block of Broughton Street and dealing with the feral cat problem.

The Project’s Action Plan is truly impressive, detailing how this development will do everything from create gorgeous greenspaces to solving West Savannah’s food desert issues. But the arena’s design, construction, and very existence provoked plenty of criticism, none of which appeared to have been considered in the final result.

Maybe one day the yet-to-be-imagined Water Works community marketplace will launch the next great fashion brand or gourmet food product, yet for the next long while anyone who lives anywhere near Stiles and Gwinnett isn’t getting home on an event night. And for all the talk about uplifting West Savannah residents and preserving the area’s cultural heritage, between the Eagles, hockey, and Jimmy Buffett, there are suddenly more white people walking the streets of this neighborhood than there have been in 200 years.

I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings, but is this some kind of collective Dunning-Kruger effect happening here? Observing the traffic situation, maybe we need to slow the roll and figure out that just because it can be done on paper, it doesn’t mean it’s going to work—not without a lot more work, anyway. Folks far smarter than I am are on the job, so I’ll assume it’s all being taken into account and tweaked.

I’ll still take our hot mess over Charleston’s homogenized gentrification any day.

We finally backed into a dusty corner of Lot G and began speedwalking back to the arena, only to return to lock Marilyn’s personal items in the trunk. Guess we missed that all purses need to be either clear or smaller than a feral kitten, which is not but should be front and center on the arena website along with other pertinent information—I would have liked to have been prepared for the news that Mulaney was requiring that everyone’s phones be placed in locked neoprene baggies to prevent video ghostpirating.

Once inside, it wasn’t so bad, though I couldn’t quite shake the airport ambience. The staff was plentiful and seemed genuinely excited to be there, hawking beers and mojitos-in-a-can with alacrity. Bathrooms were super clean. I didn’t get a chance to snack, but the Taquera y Taco kiosk smelled amazing.

I’ve heard from previous concertgoers that the acoustics are tremendous; my middle-aged ears could certainly hear Mulaney’s punchlines about bad addiction behavior just fine. However, the orientation seems far better designed for sporting events where the action is taking place in the center. Everyone sitting on the narrow parts of the oval-shaped coliseum—the majority of the seats—had to crane their necks to see the stage at the far end; I saw a lot of wicked head-twisting as cramping set in. It was a lot easier to just look at the big screens, which made me feel like I’d gotten gussied up just to watch TV with nine thousand other people.

It was such a contrast two nights later at the Wood Brothers show at the historic The Lucas Theatre, which at 100 years old remains so gobsmackingly gorgeous at every turn (I always visit the upstairs ladies’ room several times just to admire the filigreed walls.) Sure, it only holds an eighth of the audience as the arena, but there truly isn’t a bad seat in the house—Oliver Wood’s soulful guitar rang clear as church bells even in the back balcony.

Not that I can ever be kept away from the front of a stage when there’s dancing; deepest apologies to Savannah Music Festival volunteer Leslie Seidman for practically clobbering her with my hippie hippie shake as I stormed the stage for the encore. On the stairs I also almost ran down new SMF executive director Gene Dobbs Bradford, who’s been on the job all of five minutes yet seemed to have everything under good-natured control.

Thanks to some fabulous parking karma near Johnson Square, it was all so effortless and fun compared to the arena, though we did end up enjoying the comedy show and made it out of Lot G without driving across someone’s yard.

“Maybe it’ll all be fine, eventually,” I acquiesced as we snaked back through Carver Heights to I-16, trying to imagine this area with its promised public spaces, increased access, and historic preservation.

All the pieces don’t seem quite ready, but I suppose it makes sense not to let that get in the way of progress.

Then again, Savannah never seems to be in anyone else’s hurry.

If you build it, they will come…whether there’s parking or not ~ JLL