One Year of Vilda Magazine

Exactly one year ago, I pressed "publish" to reveal my very first Editor's Letter in Vilda Magazine (actually, the date says 26th, but that's only because I had previously saved the post as a privately published draft and it kept the original date) - a project that I had spent almost a year dreaming about, worrying for and working on. And last year, after a long and tiresome battle called "learning Wordpress", it finally was a real, actual online magazine.

And what a ride it has been.



Things I carry in my bag at all times:

My wallet. It's from Accessorize and was a birthday present. Note to all leather-snobs: my faux-leather beauty now a year and a half old (which is like 50 in wallet years) and There's. Not. Even. A. Scratch. So there.

My wallet contains: a ticket from the first-ever 30 Seconds to Mars concert I ever went to, in Milan (I've been to three, one in Milan, one in Stockholm and one here in London...where to next, my beloved Jared?), a London Tube map - yep, after over two years here, I still need one - plus a ticket from We Will Rock You, the best musical of all times. And  a US dollar, which is a reminder of my dream to go back to Los Angeles one day. Plus, my wallet also has pictures of my sisters, which is great because I see them quite rarely. And a photo of David, which is great even if I see him every day.


Someone Else's Jeans

When I was fifteen, every morning was like preparing to step into a battlefield. In the icy darkness of Swedish mornings, I threw on on my second-hand clothes, knowing that whatever I wore, it would be mercilessly mocked. I pulled my hair back and defiantly omitted make-up - the last thing I wanted was to be like them. I read my books and listened to my music on the train in to school, like a gladiator suiting up for the arena.

It's 1998 and I am a bonafide outcast. Not one like today's famous kids who claim they were weird in school and actually were cool before their time. No, I am an authentic, true-life weirdo, complete with a high side ponytail, striped secondhand sweaters and glitter makeup. I have four friends in my class. The only thing we have in common is that we're all nobodies. None of us particularly likes the others - our togetherness is as glued on like my fake nails, and comes undone just as easily and unattractively.


Fake Fuzz

Until last week, I had never worn fur before, real or fake. As a lifelong animal rights activist, fur has always awakened rather strong emotions in me. But as we worked on launching Vilda's The Fakeover campaign,  I researched the booming faux fur trend and found that, in this day and age, going fuzzy is no longer synonymous with cruelty. No big surprises there!


Cool Things You'll Only See in London

The schoolgirl with a Ramones sweatshirt on top of her school uniform, tiny pleated skirt and all.

The LUSH cashier girl with tattoos so incredibly stunning you can't stop staring (I had to compliment her on them, lest she think I was some weirdo just staring at her arms for no reason).

Musicians randomly jamming together at guitar stores, and the spontaneity of it making it amazing.

The most devastating downpour you'd ever seen, followed by glorious, blindingly sparkling sunshine.

Some of the most innovative, vibrant artworks of the world...spray-painted across concrete walls.

The guy on the Tube at 8 a.m, gliding down the stairs in a pair of glittery heels so fiercely high that I couldn't even stand still for five minutes in them.

The best meal you've ever had...wrapped in paper, enjoyed while sitting on the sidewalk.

That guy busking at Leicester Square station, putting every single X Factor winner to shame.

A supermodel queueing in front of you at Boots.

The sunset over Southbank.


You're Doing It Wrong: "Italian" Restaurants

When I moved to Italy for the first time ten years ago, I learned so much about food. It was like a whole new world revealing itself to me. All of a sudden, I realised that I liked pasta - only because the only way I had ever eaten pasta before was in a mess of overcooked, stuck-together tasteless clumps, as pasta is usually served in Swedish school cafeterias. Turns out you don't pour the sauce from the jar - you make it yourself, garlic and everything. And coffee! The idea of having a cappuccino with lunch now nauseates me a bit - obviously you have coffee after the meal, not with it. Plus, cappuccinos are for breakfast, while espresso is for, well, anytime.

After years of feasting on delicacy after delicacy in the country with the world's best food (sorry France!), I briefly moved back to Sweden and crashed into the reality of what I now call Fake Italian: restaurants that claim to be Italian but have no clue about what Italians actually eat and how they cook it. Now that I am in London, I sometimes order Italian just to laugh (not if I'm really hungry, though).