The Decline of the Theme Park Mall
Ghosts of pre-9/11 America still roam the Grand Ole Opry complex in Nashville
When we pulled into the Grand Ole Opry parking lot on October 16th, teams of workers were hanging Christmas decorations on every inch of the massive property. The magnitude of their early-season efforts was impressive — I expected a quaint downtown theater, but Grand Ole Opry is a vast tourist attraction that holds a hotel, convention center, and shopping mall on the outskirts of Nashville, Tennessee. As fans of mostly pre-1980s country music, my husband and I felt an obligation to visit but didn’t really know what we were getting into.
We parked our car in a sea of Georgia, Mississippi, and Kentucky license plates and wandered aimlessly toward the entrance. Unsure where to go first, we eventually decided on the Opry gift shop. Everything inside was bedazzled, distressed, or covered in animal print. My gaze landed on a shawl cardigan printed with pseudo-Native designs. I laughed at its proud “LIBERTY WEAR” label and the model on the tag grinned back like she was in on the joke. “You can mock me all you want,” her smile seemed to say, “but I just bought a vacation home in the Ozarks from this job.” Her stiff platinum curls looked like they had been shaped around the barrel of a pistol.
After the gift shop, we searched for a bathroom but found none in the vicinity (interesting choice for an attraction catered to older vacationers). We walked across the parking lot to the massive 200-store Opry Mills Mall, certain they would have ample facilities. When we arrived, there was a sign on the door listing the “rules of conduct” — a common sight in the only country on earth that has to remind patrons not to bring firearms to Foot Locker. The list contained more than ten rules, each printed in trend-forward sans serif font. One rule specified that hoodies “are acceptable” so long as the patron’s face is visible for the security cameras. Nothing like a little video surveillance to make for wholesome family memories.
The Opry Mills Mall can be categorized as a Theme Park Mall, the most mutant of all American malls. Cultural law dictates that Theme Park Malls must be haunted with pre-9/11 nostalgia. As such, hungry Opry Mills shoppers can dine at Rainforest Cafe or something called Aquarium Restaurant (which is exactly what it sounds like). In recent months, the latter has acquired a new piece of decor that camouflages nicely with the other transparent aquamarine displays: a family-sized container of blue gel hand sanitizer.
I had a visceral reaction after noticing the sign for the Rainforest Cafe; a feeling of deep longing for something I hadn’t experienced in years. We immediately abandoned the hunt for the bathroom and pivoted in search of the tropical-themed restaurant that once brought so much joy. A nearby map indicated that it was buried at the opposite end of the cavernous mall. To get there, we had to circumvent the IMAX theater and bypass Madame Tussauds, then hustle through the food court. After quickly picking up speed to escape the smells of Orange Julius and Johnny Rockets, we turned down a corridor of kiosks selling college football Croc Jibbitz. When I saw Tommy Bahama and Buckle, I knew we were close.
When we finally arrived at Rainforest Cafe it was nothing like I’d remembered. Maybe it was the location, or COVID-19, or the passage of time rendering my childhood memories to dust. But the animatronic hippo in the fountain out front looked faded and the gift shop was cramped and filled with direct-to-landfill junk. A silent, masked hostess with tired eyes replaced the once-animated “safari guide” who led diners to their tables. I peeked inside the restaurant and there were about twenty families sitting in the dim interior, listening to jungle sounds on loop while eating Rasta Pasta and “Mojo Bones.” The weight of time hit me hard, but I felt downright geriatric when I turned to my husband to ask, “How can anyone read the menu if it’s so dark inside the rainforest?”
As we left the Grand Ole Opry complex, I reminisced about American malls of the pre-Amazon era, packed with electronics stores and theme restaurants. Once international emblems of unfettered capitalism, any remaining vestiges were obliterated by time and now, COVID-19. Gone are the days of Planet Hollywood carrying enough political symbolism to inspire a 1998 terrorist bombing, and why bother visiting the displays of clothes and guitars at the Hard Rock Cafe if your kids don’t know who Paul McCartney is? Of all the formerly-massive chains, Medieval Times appears to be faring best: their restaurants average 4 stars on Yelp, proving that trends change, but Americans will forever value nationalism, pageantry, and 26 ounces of Southern Comfort fruit punch cocktail called “Executioner.”
