Tampa is worried about a hurricane that could cost millions, force evacuations, stop traffic, close stores, offices, streets and bridges, and make life even harder for the poor and homeless.
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By Joe Raedle, Getty Images
Police officers arrive in Tampa Saturday to provide security for next week's Republican National Convention.
By Joe Raedle, Getty Images
Police officers arrive in Tampa Saturday to provide security for next week's Republican National Convention.
The same could be said of a national political convention, another force of nature that the city has long tried to attract, and for which its people now are trying to prepare.
With an eye on the coming Republicans, many downtown workers have scheduled vacation or plan to work from home. Some companies near the security zone around the convention hall will rent temporary quarters miles away. There are worries whether homeless people's possessions will be seized by security, and whether an air conditioned party tent will kill the grass at a waterfront park.
Police have told merchants to tie down their sidewalk furniture lest protesters throw it through a window. Garbage carts have been taken off the streets for the duration, and wheels on rolling Dumpsters have been locked so they can't be used as battering rams.
Yes, the city will be open for business during the convention, says Mayor Bob Buckhorn, "but not business as usual."
Why would a city invite such turmoil? There are 175 million reasons — the number of dollars expected to be spent on an event that GOP chairman Reince Priebus has described as "a Super Bowl times four."
Beyond that, a combination of political opportunism, mercantile self-interest and civic machismo explains why cities that would seem least likely to host a national nominating convention are the most eager to do so.
Tampa, which made unsuccessful convention bids in 2004 and 2008, tried again for the same reasons that Charlotte wooed the Democrats: a convention supposedly boosts the local economy and showcases the host city, leading to more conventions and tourism.
"The Democratic National Convention Chose Us, and You Should, Too!" is the Charlotte tourism agency's slogan.
But in recent years, especially after the 9/11 attacks and tighter security at major events, that rationale has come into question.
In 2004, Democratic convention security closed an interstate into Boston, a commuter train station and a four-square-block area around the convention hall. In New York, security costs for the GOP convention more that doubled the original estimate, and clashes between police and protesters resulted in 1,800 arrests and many lawsuits alleging civil liberties violations.
Four years later in St. Paul, officers got in ugly fights with protesters, leading to about 800 arrests and much litigation.
The cost and inconvenience of those conventions seemed to indicate that fewer cities would be able or willing to host them. Mitchell Moss, an NYU professor of urban policy, called it "a new era. … The list of cities that can hold a convention has certainly changed." MIT economist William Wheaton estimated that cities on that list had dropped from 30 or 40 to 10. Those without a big budget, a big police force and a big buffer around the hall need not apply.
Los Angeles declined an opportunity to bid for the 2008 Democratic convention, as did Orlando for this year's GOP fest. Philadelphia Mayor Michael Nutter passed on bidding for the 2012 Democratic convention, citing "the extraordinary economic challenges we are facing" and the "impact on local residents and businesses."
Neither Charlotte nor Tampa has ever hosted anything as big as a national party convention. They're smaller big cities — the type some experts once predicted would be unable to play host after 9/11.
Reactions vary. Lawrence Ingram, a corporate lawyer whose office is near the convention center, says he'll happily work via cell and laptop at home or at an office suite his firm has rented west of downtown. But Matt Weidner, a foreclosure attorney, is not pleased: "With all the concrete and razor wire around here, it looks like a concentration camp."
Victor Matheson, an economist at the College of the Holy Cross, says there's no evidence political conventions have a lasting or significant impact on a local economy. After studying those from 1972 through 2004, he formed a rule of thumb: Take whatever dollar impact host organizers predict, "and move the decimal point one place to the left."
He says some spending during the convention would have occurred anyway, and some does not take place because a convention scares people away. Attendance at Broadway shows, for instance, dropped 20% during the 2004 convention. Ridership on some commuter train lines during the recent NATO conference in Chicago was down more than 75%.
Matheson says the assumptions behind local organizers' estimates are … optimistic. "They're good at adding and multiplying," he says, "not so good at subtraction and division."
It's also unclear whether conventions lure future business. Hotel night stays declined in several cities after recent conventions, although the recession makes comparisons difficult.
Whatever the costs, there always are cities that think they have something to prove or something to gain from a convention. St. Louis has hosted five, but none since 1916. It was a runner-up for this year's GOP event, and for the one in 1988 that wound up in New Orleans.
St. Louis' liability as a host city — a reputation for crime and poverty — could conceivably be overcome by a convention that showcased assets like its Gateway Arch and historic neighborhoods.
But publicity isn't always good. It took years for Chicago's reputation to recover from the rioting at the 1968 Democratic Convention.
So who does benefit? Civic boosters, tourism officials, hotels, restaurants, caterers, transport services. And, most of all, state and local politicians. "If I'm a mayor," says Matheson, "I get to hang out with Romney or Obama."
