Monday I had my semi-annual dental appointment. Though the dentist’s office is in Vienna, he lives in the People’s Republic of Reston and it occurs to me that if you’re ever in search of a topic guaranteed to raise the temperature of a conversation without trace of animosity, the Reston Association is the way to go.
Although it’s long since been taken over by untrammeled developers (looking at you, Boston Properties), Reston began life as a planned community, where people of all income levels would live communally—clusters of characterful townhouses or low-rise apartments—and be able to walk to shops and restaurants along tree-lined paths. That idyll didn’t last even about 30 years; by the time I first moved here in the 90s, with the exception of two shopping centers, all restaurants within the People’s Republic are part of chains, and you have your choice of Giant, Safeway or Harris Teeter for your groceries. (Okay—Trader Joe’s, as well.) So much for supporting local businesses.
But the Reston Association—which guided us into the portals of this brave new world—is a special kind of universally hated overlord. Think of the RA as an HOA with ideas way above its station, as incompetence on steroids, as bureaucrats without portfolios, existing to scoop up homeowner dues (which residents pay on top of county taxes) solely for the purpose of keeping their papers pushed.
If they made everyone within the rather loose confines of the People’s Republic pay these fees, which they don’t—only those who fall within the original RA’s grasp have to pony up—I would be less outraged. But no, the assessment on my 52-year-old house subsidizes all the amenities for the $3500/month apartment dwellers who walk their designer dogs on the paths that were meant to guide you to local shops.
Anyway—bringing up RA kept my dentist in narratives for the time it took him to check me out and clean my teeth. We parted agreeing that RA sucks eggs and is an abomination to God and mankind. We’ll reconvene in August.
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