Illustration by Rich Hauck.

A short while ago, after (another) grueling workout at Next Step Performance in Midtown Harrisburg, I tried to cross the street and—blammo—almost ended up as part of the pavement.

An SUV had turned west onto Herr Street, the second wrong-way driver on that road I had seen in about 10 minutes, both needing to throw it into reverse, say a prayer and back up into a busy 3rd Street. Five minutes later, as I drove home, another SUV almost hit me head-on driving the wrong way up Verbeke Street near the Broad Street Market.

Clearly, something was going on.

As it turned out, both HMAC and the Millworks had events that night, which had brought in folks who were not familiar with the neighborhood and its narrow, poorly marked one-way streets.

My reaction—terrific!

It wasn’t long ago that you could drive a tractor down 3rd Street after 5 o’clock and hit nothing but air and maybe a surprised squirrel. To me, the near misses were signs of progress, a quirky indication that this once desolate, forlorn commercial strip was coming back.

But I don’t think everyone feels this way.

Lately, I’ve heard long-time residents gripe about a lack of parking (especially of the free variety), confused motorists and plain-old congestion. Saturdays can be so busy in the heart of Midtown—cars, pedestrians, baby strollers, bikers, skateboarders—that it resembles one of those “shoot don’t shoot” tests that police trainees take.

I once wrote a column titled, “Harrisburg Needs People.” It told of my first long walk, a few years earlier, soon after my arrival here, through downtown and Midtown in the middle of a weekday afternoon. To my great dismay, I encountered almost no one on the streets, excepting a few guys trying to bum cigarettes off of me. Those days (thankfully) seem to be coming to a close.

In that column, I compared Harrisburg to my former home of Washington, D.C., where I watched entire blocks—then neighborhoods—transformed from blighted to bustling over a period of maybe 20 years. The process began slowly when some intrepid developer (typically a starry-eyed novice) took a huge risk, borrowing tons of money then throwing it into some forlorn old building in a tough location. When that project didn’t flop, someone else improved another nearby property—then another. Those buildings soon housed quirky little shops or the hottest new restaurants—proving demand—and a virtuous cycle began. The same thing now seems to be happening in parts of Harrisburg.

Everything, though, even progress, has a downside. In Washington, residents had to get used to two things, and I believe the same applies here. First, they had to deal with the small inconveniences brought by an improving city—harder parking, longer waits, lost visitors. In other words, what has become your average Saturday afternoon in Midtown Harrisburg.

Secondly, they had to get used to the rule of law. In Washington, a type of anarchy had long reigned in many parts of the city where you could park (or double-park) wherever you wanted, lazily stroll across the middle of a street, litter at will and neglect your rundown property without embarrassment or sanction. In a depressed, depopulated city, no one much objects because, well, everyone seems to do it (or not do it, as the case may be), and there are few, if any, consequences for breaking small rules.

When I arrived here, Harrisburg seemed like a haven for scofflaws. You could park downtown all day for free because the city didn’t enforce its own parking rules. State workers parked on almost any street in Midtown, all day long, for the same reason. Empty lots were virtual invitations to dump trash, and once grand, historic buildings had been crumbling for so long that everyone just ignored them.

When a city redevelops, though, the situation changes. Slowly, slowly, people come back. They want to see the places that had been hidden for so long beyond fences and behind boards, newly restored and open again. They want to visit for nice meal, a drink, a show. Small offices open, often occupied by young, creative companies looking for an urban location. Increasingly, people also want to live there.

In other words, a place recently desolate teems again with life. That, however, may create problems for people accustomed to the old ways. There are more rules to follow, and they’re enforced more rigorously. There are inconveniences. There are new ways of doing things. There are some new faces. There are growing pains.

All of these things happened in my old neighborhood in Washington. About 15 years ago, a guy who owned the long-defunct Capitol Hill Hospital wanted to turn his almost empty building into condos. Some neighbors objected, worried what would happen to their easy street parking. They actually went to court, delaying the project for so long that the owner went bankrupt. As a result, an entire city block sat unused—desolate and dangerous—to preserve the parking privileges of a handful of entitled residents. Ten more years would pass before that prime urban land was redeveloped.

Like D.C. of two decades ago, Harrisburg is starting to change, and that change is accelerating, as one project feeds another. For the most part, this is fantastic news. You can see parts of the city coming back, wakening from a very long slumber. Along with growth, though, come problems. Traffic is tougher, parking more difficult, lines longer. Sometimes, out-of-towners drive the wrong way up Verbeke Street. Progress has finally come, but not without a small cost.

Lawrance Binda is editor-in-chief of TheBurg.