Mediterraneo - The untold story behind my most beloved project

Five years ago, I packed my bags and moved to Brussels. I was chasing a dream, the kind that tugs at you from a young age — a dream of growing, learning, becoming more. Brussels was a new world for me, full of opportunity and discovery. But as I tried to settle in, I realized something unexpected: every step forward in that new life came with a quiet ache, a gentle tug in the opposite direction. My heart was being pulled elsewhere — back to Sicily.

It was in the little things. I missed the scent of the sea carried on the wind, the overwhelming brightness of the southern light, the warmth of my dialect echoing in the streets, the chaotic symphony of familiar sounds that you never notice until they're gone. In Brussels there was a general chaos and, at the same time, a particular silence that made me feel further away than I had anticipated.

Whenever we had the chance, Stefano and I would return to Sicily. We weren’t just visiting — we were reconnecting. Reuniting with my family, retracing the paths of my childhood, immersing ourselves in the colors and flavors that shaped who I am. And during those visits, something beautiful began to happen.

Stefano, with his attentiveness and sensitivity, started to absorb everything. He would walk through the old streets with his camera, record sounds, jot down notes, and quietly internalize the essence of the island. And once we were back in Brussels, all of that — the sunlight, the voices, the feelings — began to resurface through music.

Little by little, he started composing. I still remember those moments: a melody echoing through the apartment, the guitar softly speaking in the next room. Every note he wrote carried with it a fragment of Sicily — my Sicily — and somehow, through those pieces, we brought it back into our lives.

The music filled our home like sunlight. Sometimes, if I closed my eyes, I could almost see the coastline from the kitchen window.

That Missing Feeling Became an Album

When we finally moved back to Italy, something inside me settled. The distance that had stretched between my present and my roots began to close — and with that came a deep, clear desire: I wanted to make something that could honor everything we had lived through.

All those years of longing, of traveling back and forth, of capturing fragments of Sicily from afar — they weren’t just memories. They were the foundation of a story that needed to be told, not with words, but with music. I dreamed of an album that could hold it all: the beauty and the ache, the nostalgia and the joy, the quiet transformation that happens when you live far from home but carry it with you, everywhere.

And that’s how Mediterraneo was born.

It wasn't just about playing music — it was about translating feelings into sounds. Each track became a vessel for something real: a scent, a light, a voice, a goodbye, a return. It became our way of preserving what distance had threatened to fade. Through music, we could relive the warmth of those Sicilian afternoons, the laughter around a family table, the silence of a landscape at dusk.

Two years ago, on one of those return trips, we took the photo that would become the album cover — a quiet moment under the Sicilian sun. That same day, we filmed a video, a simple performance surrounded by the land that had inspired every note. The video stayed on my hard drive, untouched, as if waiting for its time. And that time is now.

Today, exactly two years later, I’m ready to share it with you. Because Mediterraneo is not just music. It’s a love letter, a trace of home, a root still growing beneath the surface. It’s everything I carried with me during those years away — and everything I still carry now.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for listening.

Thank you for allowing me to bring Sicily a little closer, wherever you are.

With love, Roberta