The STRUNCENA DISPATCH

This is Veronika Struncena’s diary, in which she writes about her ventures in the world and the journeys she makes, the convos she has and the people she meets,

she shares her stories with her reader, the world and her friends, who often come asking, wanting to know - what is Veronika planning for today?

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Oct 16, Friday

One of the things I like is to always remember: "Pines grow in the forest, and spruce trees grow there too, but beneath the birch leaves - red, wild strawberries."

Oct 15, Thursday

Life tends to give you whatever it is you are most certain of. Especially, if you hope to find your wants with first finding your dislikes - from experience, they are often one and the same. So from now on every morning, once I am wake, I will dedicate the first 5 minutes to thinking of things that I certainly like - and maybe write them down later. But I ought to practice a little now, before tomorrow morning comes. I like October, and I like fall. I like wooly socks, and I like baking brownies for hours on end.

I also like chocolate sweets, and Richard Curtis movies.

And I also like knowing what it is that I want.

Oct 13, Tuesday

I began my morning with what can only be referred to as a 'Morning Dummy', when I dropped a yellow and a blue M&M in between the car seats - which had been warm from the heater before. God knows what other horrors await me today, and it's not even a Friday.

Oct 12, Monday

Lucky day today.

I woke up and yesterday's me had left five chocolate m&m's in the bag - five more, than there should have been. Then I went to a store and brought a pack more. After that I got into the school I wanted, won 10 euros and brought a very cool looking jacket. I ended the day with a sunset swim in a lake. Like I've said, a lucky day.

Oct 11, Sunday

In the end, I did not look out to the plain in the morning. I mostly refused to, out of sheer disappointment of its lack of paranormality. But the horrors persisted, as the fog followed us, and so did the lack of life. We would see nobody, the ones we met would not speak, only stare. It was phenomenal, and it made me believe as if I was dead. For the time being, I won’t forget this fantastic experience. But I will also remember how Italians really hate to exist alongside really bad weather.

Oct 10, Saturday

In all my years of experience traveling Europe from the window of my tent, I have never been so afraid to look out into a plain grass field before

.

I am downstairs in the car, a moment ago reading my Mystery at the Road Hill House (perhaps my first mistake). My father is upstairs, in the tent, watching something, a series of some kind. It is getting dark, and I can no longer see what I am reading, so I step out of the car to pick up my flashlight from the rear passenger door, and perhaps visit nature.

We are where no civilization is; in the middle of a forest, on a large flat patch once a parking spot, now turned into a growing swamp of wet grass and thick, slimy bog from years of abandonment and neglect - we are the first car it's seen in a while.

There is a big lake not far away, its water stagnant, overgrown with weeds and lumped up debris. There is also a lake house, equally as fading, hinting of a past of summer beach parties and busy lake life, water activities and aqua parks.. in the past and surely still in someone's memory, now left to the ravages of only time.

And then there is the grass plain, just a minute's walk away. It is the only place in the evening where the fog, presumably lifting from the lake, settles over the knee-deep clutters of grass, covering the tops of the strands so you lose where they end completely. The wall of pines far in the distance gives an idea where the plain might end, but it turns a corner, and it stays unclear.  But it's not the rotting lakehouse or the stillwater or the alluring plain that tune off my father's show in the background, no. Because the house could be scarier, the lake could be cloudier, and the plain could have no end, and it still would not be as half as terrifying as the realisation - nothing lives here, it is dead land. Not a shiver in a bush, not the gurgle of a fish, not the sighting of a doe. Nothing but silence and the occasional gnarl of a crow.

If I had not seen the plain during dusk, I would have not been as afraid to go out in the dark. But after having stared at it, seeking even the slightest change of silhouette, many fantasies came to life. Eventually, I could look into the badly lit field and see a pair of red, growing eyes - the Hound of Baskerville, perhaps. Or I could imagine hearing the thundering of hooves, and then finally, as the last rays of light would leave, see in the distance a rider in a cape, and without a head. I could see a scarecrow that wasn't there before, or a Wendigo run across the field, its legs and arms too long to hide in the grass. I could even prepare to look again, and see my father's unrecognisable face looking straight at me, knowing he is now upstairs, sleeping. As a child, I never particularly liked looking out into a forest in the dead of night, with all the stories you would hear of dark druids and witches coming out to stalk and eat you after the dark had settled, and you could see in the forest as far as the first three vent. But I never thought that 16 years later, a plain grass field would scare me as much as it would me back then.

Oct 9, Friday

We, me and my dad still, spent the day loitering across the Ligurian Italian Riviera, warming up for the weekend's sweet practice of doing nothing. We got lost in the muse of the old, stone villas hidden away in their weed jungles, and enjoyed the good, expensive tastes of the people who lived there and who owned classy, mahogany wood boats, and we even got to see Portofino - I did not find my love there, but could the port be the love?

To live up to the riches of our own, we slept on the peak of the seaside mountain range, with a wide and breathtaking view of the sea, its port cities and the few ships on their way across the horizon - we were so high up I even saw the eye of a thunderstorm.

But perhaps the most beautiful thing happened a little after the sun went down, and the winds had picked up, when I, crouched to hide away from the full drops of the rain, walked face to face with a fox, which later turned out to be a lone Alpine wolf.

I still wonder what was the occasion.

Oct 8, Thursday

We are in Genova, a port city south of Milan, and we are here on a whim. Yesterday, I suggested to my dad that, while my education-absent schedule still allowed it, we could take a trip somewhere in the vicinity of Milan, where I had never been before. So yesterday afternoon, instead of finding camp an hour early as I had planned, we drove down south, and found camp halfway thought. We slept somewhere nowhere in the mountains, and it looked just like the foggy and wet evergreen rainforests you see in American horror shows, someplace straight out of Twin Peaks. It rained all night, but I slept well. In the morning, while driving the rest of the way to Genova, the sun evidently made it's presence behind the cloudy sky, and eventually, she did. Now the weather's become clear, and soon we perhaps will be able to see the sea. I'm excited, so far the scene has been Italian villas with weaving green gardens and tall white-cedars, and the radio plays wonderful nostalgia. I remembered the book's name now. It is The Suspicions of Mr Witcher. I've just now found out it has a TV show. Mother will be pleased to hear.

Oct 7, Wednesday

I was going thought my mom's things in the car, when I came across a book I had gifted to her. She had left it with us before leaving for Latvia, and I remember reading it before giving it to her. It was a detective, a true story, and very intriguing one. I don't remember it's name. My mom flies back on the 13th of October. Until then, me and my dad will have to set camp an hour earlier every day, so I can finish it before she arrives.

Oct 6, Tuesday

After a long period of Gossamer summer, Milan sees clouds. I knew it would yesterday, when the clear skies darkened early, and you could tell, it would be a long night. The sun hasn't shone since. Everybody's nervous. My dad tells me she will come back, but not as warm as before October came. I have hope, but I might have to shine by myself. It will not be as welcoming anymore.

Oct 5, Monday

This morning has been exquisite compared to the last couple of days. We were searching for a place to park, and right in front of the cafe, we found one! I got my codice fiscale at the Agenzia della Entrate

today, and I didn't even need the appointment! I watched Jarmusch's "Down by Law" and I enjoyed it! So i've decided, with a day turned out like that, I shall go see about a flat. And then get gelato.

Oct 4, Sunday

A day, full of experiment, and no result. We went to Lake Como for a lengthy beach day. There was no beach. Then, 170 km later, we found one. It was already 4 in the afternoon. What a waste of a sunny day.

Oct 3, Saturday

Marked a big day in the calendar - the 15th Parliament elections, my first ever time voting, abroad. It didn't go as expected. It WASN'T what I expected.

Oct 2, Friday

I've had precious sleep tonight, and a very delicious brioche in the morning. I've had a good talk alongside a cup of coffee, and a deep, sincere laugh. I have done excellent work, and I've learned something new. Today has been a good Friday, and I feel relieved.

Oct 1, Thursday

Every year, without fault, whenever the first of October arrives, I remember it is time for my favorite month of the year, but I don't really know why. Because it isn't summer, when I can enjoy the hot weather, the street life it brings, or the warm Lisbon nights. It isn't winter, when I can take on the snowy mountains, and burn myself to the thrill of Snowboarding, and enjoy the holidays that come with the season. It isn't spring either, when everything warm wakes up, and it smells nice, and the earth gets back its color. But it does seem to be autumn, when the forests become earthy and wet, and the harvest gets brought up, and families gather in their houses. And yet, the feeling is indifferent. So why then October? I don't know. And most likely, I will never know. But October is here, and its time for the leather browns.

Sep 30, Wednesday

I spent the day thinking if September had flown or dragged past me. I made my New Years resolutions, and wished my grandfather a happy birthday.

Sep 29, Tuesday

We slept an hour too much, and we missed all the brioche. We lost an hour in the traffic, and were late for lunch. I went to bed an hour later, and lost an hour of sleep.

Sep 28, Monday

Work, work, work. Back to work. I went to Agencia della Entrate today - three of them, to be precise. I discovered they pay fairly well to civil servants for the words "Do you have an appointment" and "Signora, you need an appointment." Not bad money.

But I do have an appointment. It's next Monday, it's for my tax code. All I needed was to pick up the form. The agencies usually have them laying around for pick-up, but I must be mistaken.

So sorry, segnior, but I do not in fact, have an appointment today. This answer seemed to anger the administrator even more, all three of them. I guess they don't pay enough for small talk. Watch out, here comes AI to take your job!

Sep 27, Sunday

The Armani Show. It was quite the clever decision to get up early on Sunday morning, and drive down to Milan for one of the last remaining Fashion Week shows. The guests were even more elegant. The spectators were increasingly as many. And it came to an end just as quick as it had come around.

But there was a misunderstanding, turned to fun - look out for any photography coverage of the event, I might have made it onto a magazine page.

Sep 26, Saturday

After the The Gucci Store Show, we failed to do much. We came to an agreement, more than a discussion, to spend our weekend in the ambienace of Italian nature, so the alps and Lake Como it was. We took a slow morning, spend the day on the beach, and didn't think much whenever we had food or not. It was a calming day. And there was a swan.

Sep 25, Friday

It was Day 4 of Milan Fashion Week, and after a clumsy recovery from the staggering sensation left by Vogue World, my father and I decided to head back into the city for another atmospheric experience, this time, to the Gucci Spring/Summer 2027 presentation - a collection now widely referred to as “The Store Show.”

Designed by Demna, the recently appointed creative director of Gucci, the collection has drawn astonishing praise from critics, public and fashion admirers alike, for the simple reason it is believed to be the revival of  house’s original, unvarnished vision of luxury, naturally placing the show amongst one of the best collections seen so far at Fashion Week Milan. I  didn’t have the opportunity to witness this well-assessed spectacle from inside the venue, however, I did, for the very first time in life, have a front-row seat to something equally revealing: the electric, unscripted theater playing out on the street.

The dense crowd of spectators - photographers, editors, artists, influencers, and fans of the house - were spying every entrance, door, gate and alleyway in hopes to catch a glimpse of a recognisable silhouette or a famous voice, trying to eye out their favorite idols. People on highgrounds, mostly fans and photographers on stools, stone flowerpots or fences, were peering through the slimmest gaps between banners to attempt the same, get the best picture possible. Chauffeured in their S-class’s and Maybach’s, New World upbringings, East Asian nobilities and celebrities from all across Italy and the world, would step out of the cars, making the audience hold its breath, waiting, who would they see for the brief second following. Inside the venues, photographers and fans could be heard yelling after the arriving celebrities, and we would only know by the yell - the bigger the name, the louder the ovation. The sharpest sound of surprises went with no surprise, to the ex-editor of Vogue, Anna Wintour.

We left the venue early, but it was evident that many of the people here would be still seen lingering on the street long after the show will have ended, talking about the scene, the show, and discussing which brand event to storm up next.

Sep 24, Thursday

It's been two days since Vogue World Milano. Exhaustion from the greatness around persists.

Sep 22, Tuesday

Today is the first day of Milan Fashion Week, and I am beyond excited. Or I was. Now I’m in an absolute state of shock, glory, and hunger, for an environment so high-voltage and so powerful, I am not sure even what to make of it. This was my most eventful, if not significant, day of my life, and it was electric.

22nd of September, 11.10, eleven minutes late, I arrive to NABA for their contribution to the Fashion Week, the Masters Showroom for Design. I spend there the following 3 hours, talking to designers, students, learning of concepts and materials, when at 13.00 I take a break at the cafe next door, and decide to not return, because my mom is at IKEA and I must have the meatballs for lunch. I decide to take a metro, I take the wrong one, now I am in the middle of Milan, by the Gallery, entry forbidden. Vogue World. I decide to walk around the backstreets, catch the action behind the scenes, and I do. Armani, Ferrari, Henderson, Dior, employees waiting, chewing on their nails, nervous, preparing for something, somebody important. Bodyguards walking around, police marching about, traffic organised, people confused, I walk around the Gallery and find my way to the McDonalds. But I didn’t come to eat a BigMac, I came to watch the models. Time passes, I step back on the street. It’ 16.00. Too early to go. A neon orange coat passes me. There’s a lady in it. She is wearing white pants, and she does not hurry. I decide to follow her, it is about time I learn the path of a millionaire. I follow her grey pixie cut to a hotel’s door. Her secretary and stylist walk in. Without stopping, I continue down the path she’s set me to walk. I arrive to the Duomo square. I go to the entry of the Gallery, barricaded, I get as close as I can. There’s a crowd growing, I take high ground at a statue, and the view is incredible. There is Pamela Anderson. There goes Dakota Johnson Heidi Klum. Monica Bellucci. Bella Hadid, Jenifer, Hunter, Harper, as I watch and converse with the man next to me. “This jumpy guy with the camera is from the press. We might make the Vogue page.” Good grief. 

Sep 21, Monday

I don't like Mondays. They always have the reputation for being productive, but uh oh false advertising, and nothing ever gets done.

Sep 20, Sunday

It has to be said that our Toyota is a car with her headlights out for delight, as the town which she chose this time, Mandello del Lario, was very welcoming and very beautiful indeed. Waiting for Monday's arrival, we spent the day eating gelatos, Margarita pizza's and toasting by the lake in the late september sun. It was a good day, and I was tired.

Sep 19, Saturday

The RUFA entrance exam consisted of two parts: a test and a virtual interview. If the exam were a cheese sandwich, I’d be the bread, the test would be the butter, and the interview would be the mouldy cheese that makes the sandwich aweful. Hopefully, the mouldy cheese is specifically to the professors’ taste, because you really do need a particular trace to appreciate the unusual.

It is 16.32. We are by Lake Como, 20 minutes away from Lecco, and we have broken down completely. It is Saturday, so no garrages are open. Tomorrow is Sunday, and everybody's gonna be getting their Sundae. But while everybody else's ice-cream will be coming with either the caramel or chocolate sauce, ours will come with a sprinkled-on drizzle handful of worry and upset.

Sep 14, Monday

Today I was tinkering around the IKEA café. After three ice

creams, two coffees and a marinated herring, I wrote a letter to myself 10 years from now.

Sep 12, Saturday

Today I attended an open day at the University of Fine Arts in Rome, and the directing professor there had two different colour shoes on -  one that matched his shirt, and the other that went with his scarf. This eccentric man showed us around the university’s premises, studios and classes, where we were able to observe the processes of filmmaking, from screenwriting to the actual set, as well as gain first hand experience in various roles of our level to understand the importance of a professional on set, because oh my otherwise. 

The day, while eventful, went by quickly, and by noon I was already boarding the bus to head back north to a view of the Tuscan countryside, alongside one very charming bus driver and one wildly entertaining Italian woman.

Sep 11, Friday

I took a bus down to Rome and there I waited for the metro, where for a moment I thought instead of a train to see Roman chariots approaching on rail.

Sep 10, Thursday

I am back at Holden, and today I am in a completely different group than yesterday, with completely different people than yesterday. Everybody’s writing something, but I’m not sure about what, because Massimo isn't with me today. The reason as to why was given to me when I came in for the afternoon workshop in screenwriting, and the receptionist informed me that the workshop had been by complete accident  held in the morning, and that now there would be the writing workshop - the one I had hoped to miss. 

So now I'm sitting in neither of the lessons, in a completely different course entirely, and everyone is writing something, and I'm studying them. Two rows in front of me sits the most Italian looking man I’ve ever seen. White t-shirt, thick mustache, slick-backed hair, dangerous eyes. He could be popular, maybe famous. Next to him on the right sits a girl who very well could be a rock star. Sharp character, clean taste, glasses like the ones you see in brand advertisements; thick, black frames with orange lenses. They seem to be friends. And they are writing something. And I wonder what. Oh look, and there’s Matteo. He should be with Massimo too, but I guess he missed the morning class as well. It’s a shame I have to leave early, I wanted to hear what he had to say yesterday. Maybe just that he was Matteo. 

A minute of writing remains. The teacher calls to drop down our pens.

Sep 9, Wednesday

Today I went to an orientation day at Holden School in Turin, where I would be introduced to my program, the teachers, the school, and the lunch menu. When I arrived an hour earlier than expected, and sat down at the reception sofa to finalise some of my work, a short, speedy Italian man swiftly approached me and, though using just his jittering presence and unreadable gesturing, tried to understand what exactly it was I was doing at his reception. When it became clear I didn’t understand Italian, or was of Italian descent, two more heads emerged from behind the reception desk, one of which - a man with a tea-sweetening smile and engulfing embrace - asked, “Are you Veronika?”I replied that I was, he laughed, and there I waited until the start of my orientation. During the workshop I became friends with an Italian youth named Massimo who, having witnessed my spectacle at the reception, had decided to devote himself to my saving and  spent the rest of his day alongside me as my trusted companion. When we entered the workshop for the first time, Massimo was the first to alert the lector that his colleague was English. When I had only superficially grasped the lecturer's instructions, Massimo made sure I was in complete clarity of the task, leaving no space for confusion. When I thanked him, saying that he wasn’t obligated to look out for me, and that I had to learn Italian anyway, Massimo jumped to his feet, snapped, “Well then, let me know when you need me again,” and hurried to the front of the class for the oral exercise, where he chose to speak Italian twice as fast as he had before. I must have upset him, because when he returned to his place next to mine, he turned his back on me. Massimo was a true Italian; proud, sentimental, generous, and vulnerable, yet charismatic and unpretentious at once, making him exceptionally charismatic. Massimo also writes brilliant dialogues. My favourite is the one between an old man Dente Joe and his rubber ducky. At lunch Massimo was again making me laugh - we got into a conversation with a local artist, who considered himself a madman in a sane world. Seemed about right. As we were heading toward the cafeteria exit, my conversation with Massimo was suddenly interrupted by another participant, just like us - a young Italian of most intriguing character. Dressed in proper office attire with his jacket slung over his shoulder and hair lazily gelled to the side, he reached out a firm hand. “Hi! I’m Matteo.” “Veronika, nice to meet you.” “Me too. You speak English?” “Yes.” Here he apologized to Massimo for suddenly interrupting our conversation. “Me too. “Are you a student here?” He asked me in the hallway “No, this is my first time here today.”  “Me too. Are you thinking of enrolling in the film course?” He asked me down the stairs “Yes.” I told him by the exit “Me too.” Matteo didn’t get to agree forever, as this was where I had to leave him and Massimo for that day, leaving me in anticipation for what he had to tell me tomorrow.