LandscapeArtist
In thesuburbsofLosAngeles, thatgreen thumbmightbespraypaint
california
“W
hy, welcome ma’am!” says a
beaming flight attendantwith
a silkyAmericanaccent, her navyhat
perched atop a neat platinum bun. In
a figure-huggingdresswithbigwhite
buttons, she attracts appreciative
glances frommenwaiting in line.
Past the check-in desk, in an allur-
ing club lounge, passengers knock
back sangria andmojitos served by
a dashing bartender. This, everyone
agrees, is theway togo—exceptnoone
isactuallygoinganywhere.
The setting is a repurposed crypt in
London’sWest End, oneof thevenues
forMileHigh,asupperclubthatevokes
pop-uptheatermorethanfold-outtable
trays. The clubamounts toa riffon the
golden age of air travel, but theplush
surroundings suggest a flight of the
london
TheHighLife
Youarenow free to congaaround the cabin
imagination rather than reality. And
that’sbeforeyouget to the food.
Mile High’s menus are tailored
towardanumberofrevolvingdestina-
tions: char-grilledelk forGothenburg,
roast lamb forBeirut,pastaallaNorma
for Sicily, and so on. Recently, the
eventpoppeduponNewYork’sLower
EastSide,withLondonas thedestina-
tion (braisedporkcheeks).Tonight, the
four-coursemeal will feature dishes
likehakea laplanchawithchorizoaioli.
Destination: Andalusia.
As theeveningwearson, the illusion
of flight gradually givesway towhat
co-organizerAnnaTempletoneuphemis-
tically calls “anold-school night out.”A
pilotwithdesignerstubble leadsaconga
linearound the tables. An Irishwoman
theatrically requestspotatoeswithher
jamón Ibérico.Anotherwomanattempts
to flamenco-danceonherchair.
Thehighspirits, saysTempleton, are
due to the fact that guests are being
served up “a bit of the unexpected,”
though the constant flow of bubbly
probably plays a part. “Hey! We’re
going to Ibiza!” sing the conga-dancing
passengers, even though theyarenot.
—
HANNAHSTUART-LEACH
dispatches
K
erriMcCoy stands before a front
yard in suburban Los Angeles,
shaking her head in an exaggerated
gestureofconcern.Mostly,it’s lovely—
palm trees swaying, a hummingbird
flitting around a desert willow.The
lawn, though, is another matter.
The lawn is an absolute nightmare.
California is in the midst of a
long and terrible drought, which
has ruined crops and scorched lawns
up and down the state. Which is
whereMcCoy comes in.Her com-
pany, Lawn Paint Pros, promises to
restore the “curb appeal”of people’s
frazzledyardsbywayof a spraygun,a
tank of green dye and a knack for
optical illusion.
A spiky-haired Harley-Davidson
enthusiast,McCoy has been painting
people’s lawns for about four years and
generallyaverages about two jobs aday,
though this number is climbing as the
weather continues tobeuncooperative.
“InCalifornia,we’reusedtogreengrass,”
shesays.“Peopleobsessovertheir lawns.”
Even in normal conditions, the
homeownersofLAandVenturaCounty
go through about 50 gallons of her
vegetable-baseddye amonth; for some
people, the green that nature provides
isn’t quite green enough.“They say the
grassdoesn’t look right,”McCoy says.
Today, watched by a few neigh-
bors, she applies her “special sauce”
in a sweepingmotion, transforming
her client’s fuzzy brown lawn into a
fuzzy green one. There’s a sense of
satisfaction that comes from creating
such a revival, saysMcCoy, but that’s
not the only reason she loves her job.
“Being outside in this weather every
day,”she says.“What couldbebetter?”
—JAMESBARTLETT
22
MARCH2015
•
HEMISPHERESMAGAZINE.COM
