The Maestro, the Aperol, and the Grand Sicilian Plan
In early Spring 2025, a certain Venezuelan musical director—squinting in the bright sunlight and enjoying the warmth, found himself on holiday in Ortigia, Sicily.
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Now, Ortigia is the sort of place where the sea sparkles like a high soprano’s top note and even the pigeons appear to move in slow operatic gestures. Our maestro had promised himself he would rest. No rehearsals. No programming. No thinking about tenors.
He lasted forty-eight minutes.
There he was, seated in a little piazza as the sun melted into the Ionian Sea like a scoop of pistachio gelato. Before him glowed a magnificent glass of Aperol Spritz—orange as a sunset and twice as inspirational.​​
He took a sip.
He gazed at the Baroque balconies.
He took another sip.
And then—
“BRING THE GUILDHALL SINGERS TO SICILY!” he declared, startling a nearby cat and three tourists.
It was, he was certain, a marvellous idea.
The plan grew rapidly, as good holiday ideas do. First came a second Aperol (purely for strategic thinking). Then came ice cream—strictly research into local culture. Limone. Fragola. Cioccolato. Each flavour seemed to whisper: Yes, maestro. This is destiny.
Within days, thanks to enthusiastic messages and even more enthusiastic gelato consumption, the wheels were turning. His friend, Francesco of Zagara e Lumia in Catania—heroic, organised, and possessed of a mobile phone permanently attached to one hand—sprang into action, and another friend Ester fixed high level meetings.
Two concerts! Why stop at one?
The first would be in Ortigia itself, in the beautiful San Filippo Apostolo Church, collaborating with the splendid Coro Discantus. Rehearsals would be a joyous mix of English vowels, Italian consonants, and expressive hand gestures that could probably be seen from Mount Etna.​​​
The second concert would take place in Catania, in the magnificent San Benedetto Church, alongside Coro Polifonico San Marco. Imagine warm greetings, dramatic crescendos, and at least one bass who would become temporarily distracted by cannoli, not to mention by the prospect of post concert celebrations at Thirsty Corner.
Between rehearsals there would be, naturally, further cultural studies: more ice creams from Don Peppinu (strictly comparative analysis), evening strolls, and the occasional Aperol—purely to maintain artistic vision. He knew that the churches would shimmer candlelight and harmony. Voices would soar into ancient ceilings. Audiences would beam. The maestro, in his beautiful Italian turquoise suit, about to conduct, would reflect: “Goodness. That was an excellent Aperol.”
And so it was that a holiday, several scoops of gelato and one sparkling orange drink turned into a musical adventure in Sicily—proving once and for all that inspiration can strike at any time.
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Especially at l’ora dell’aperitivo.
