L.A. is famous for many things, but an abundance of large green spaces isn’t the very first thing that comes to mind. I grew up in a large European city where grass, flowers, trees and bushes in public parks provide instant stress relief for the human species known as Rat Race Participant. Benches and birds complete the picture in these urban versions of Eden. Bonus: there are no snakes and you don’t get kicked out for eating an apple.

Not so long ago Los Angeles was very green. In black/white photos taken less than a century ago the city is almost unrecognizable: fields, dirt roads, a few farm buildings, and zero gridlock – no traffic reports or Sig alerts needed. But thanks to Mister Ford, Mister Mulholland, early movie moguls, oil men and other crafty folks the area went through drastic changes and Green Acres eventually became Paved-Over-Acres. Dreamy magazine ads with pictures of orange groves portraying L.A. and surroundings as an earthly paradise worked their magic on countless ordinary people who packed up and migrated west, drawn like moths to a flame. And really, who could blame them?

The Thomas Guide lists hundreds of parks in Los Angeles and while every square -foot of green counts in a city, an article such as this only allows for a very short list of stand-outs plus a hands-down favorite of mine. But let’s give it up for the city’s many Little Parks!

Griffith Park is the biggest of L.A. parks and includes The Greek Theater and the Observatory as bonus points - and wildfires as bummer points. Much of the large UCLA campus is lovely with an Ivy League look. Pan Pacific Park is a pretty and somewhat underrated spot. MacArthur Park has seen much improvement in the last few years and the neighborhood surrounding it badly needs the greenery. There’s also the beautiful Huntington Botanical Gardens and the gorgeous Descanso Gardens . These are all wonderful, but I find Hollywood Forever to be the jewel in the crown, in part because it’s an unlikely contender: a cemetery and park rolled into one.

I’ve always loved cemeteries, but in a non-morbid kind of way. They are by their very nature tranquil places, like big outdoor libraries - you half-expect staff and fellow visitors to hush anyone speaking above a whisper. In a city like L.A. where the sounds of traffic is a constant, Hollywood Forever is truly an urban oasis: surrounded by busy streets but with virtually zero air pollution of the noisy kind. Once inside, one feels as if stepping into a secret garden.

Hollywood Forever’s famous neighbor is Paramount Pictures. Together they essentially formed “bookends” in the lives of many early Hollywood stars who began their careers at Paramount and found their final resting place literally next door. Although I’m a big film buff, I don’t find myself drawn to the many movie star graves except the one of Mel Blanc, voice of beloved animated Loony Tunes characters: the epitaph on his modest gravestone fittingly reads “That’s all folks”.

What draws me to this place are the quiet, the beauty, and the statues. I’m not one to say if there are angels in Heaven, but several winged ladies grace the lawns at Hollywood Forever – the City of Angels come to “life”. One is small and holds a sparrow in the palms of her hands. Another is tall and looks as if watching over both the living and the dead. A copy of a famous statue shows another winged character: Cupid reviving Psyche like any Prince Charming worth his salt. (the original by Italian sculptor Antonio Canova is at the Louvre in Paris.)

On my most recent visit there, I bumped into a peacock – a hunk of a bird, with plumage so stunning you have to forgive the guy for being a little cocky. I was walking around the small Thai temple garden to the left of the chapel and at first I didn’t notice him – he seemed part of the tableau. Maybe he felt insulted and ignored because suddenly he let out a loud call - his mate responded from somewhere in the distance. He seemed to sense that I wasn’t going to pluck any of his feathers and stopped circling the small grassy area. I sat down on a bench and made no sudden movements – it was “Gorillas in the Mist” minus the chest pounding. He laid down a few feet from the bench and kept quiet. I was banking on his lady not being the jealous type should she catch her guy hanging out with another “bird”, but she never showed up and for the next fifteen minutes or so he and I kept each other company. My legs felt a little sore and I finally got up, but waited until after he stood up – it seemed disrespectful somehow to do otherwise. I told him goodbye, exited the garden and thought of how surreal it was to have eye contact with another species and to have this magnificent being trust me – I felt honored.

Close to the lake where two black swans hold court, another example of the cocky male can be found: the rock guitarist. Johnny Ramone’s larger-than-life memorial statue shows him doing what he did best: playing his beloved axe for all eternity. On one visit I met up with a pro photographer whom I had hired to do a series of photos of me. We were given permission at the office by the entrance and I paid a token amount to the receptionist. I don’t usually jump up on statues – especially not in cemeteries - but on that day I decided I didn’t want to miss out on a perfect photo op - so totally L.A.! I climbed up and held on to Johnny who was oblivious to yet another shameless visitor using him as a prop.

We shot the rest of the series at one of the many mausolea scattered across the far end of the grounds. In the middle of the session a small group of tourists appeared out of nowhere and started gawking in my direction, except they turned out to be interested not in me but in the history of the family mausoleum whose imposing and beautiful door I happened to be leaning my back against. The tourist guide gave everyone the facts: the father of the family had gone down with the Titanic in 1912 and his wife and children were “added” years later. I felt a little goosebumpy and thought of Jack and Rose after the ship hits the iceberg. They are however fictional characters in a blockbuster movie, but here I was, literally turning my back on the remains of a man who actually did drown on that fatal night. Gulp. It was one of those moments in L.A. when the lines between film and reality are blurred, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised – after all this was Hollywood, cemetery or not.

Photo by PredatorsHockey via Flickr

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