Tuscany - August 2025
San Giovese Grapes at Terra di Seta by Claire Silverstone-Bright
Tuscany is more than vineyards and postcards. For me, it became a tapestry of leaning towers, Jewish memory, hidden prisons, and small moments of renewal.
In Lucca, I climbed the Guinigi Tower, where oak trees grow from its roof, a symbol of persistence rooted in stone. Below, the Piazza dell’Anfiteatro curves where an ancient Roman amphitheatre once stood — absence turned into presence, a circle of cafés, shops, and laughter. I walked the walls of the city, feeling the rhythm of history in each step. Did you know ….. The Guinigi Tower’s oak trees were planted in the 14th century as a symbol of rebirth and renewal?
View of the Guigni Tower in Lucca - through the meandering streets of Lucca by Claire Silverstone-Bright
Siena offered me grandeur and memory. Its cathedral dazzled in black and white marble, its synagogue quietly held centuries of Jewish life, and in the stories of Catherine of Siena comforting condemned prisoners, I found echoes of conviction and compassion that felt close to my own work.
The Glorious Synagogue in Siena by Claire Silverstone Bright
In Florence, among the treasures, I sought out the “third David” — one of Michelangelo’s less famous versions, tucked away but no less powerful. Even in a city saturated with beauty, conviction can mean looking for what others overlook.
The Third “David” - Michaelangelo’s Famous Sculpture in Brass - overlooking the city of Florence from the other side of the River Arno - by Claire Silverstone-Bright
Pisa is known for its leaning tower, but I discovered a city where even the Duomo and Baptistery lean, where Fibonacci gave us the sequence of balance and imbalance, and where Keith Haring’s Tuttomondo mural celebrates movement and freedom. Pisa was also Galileo’s city. His conviction that the earth revolved around the sun led to his house arrest, a silencing that reminded me of those today who are still judged for truths society resists. Nearby, the Jewish cemetery spoke of another community leaning but enduring, marking its place in the city’s story.
And in Pisa, I stepped into the Camposanto Monumentale, a cloister filled with frescoes that rival The Last Supper. They stretch across the walls like a painted Torah, retelling the Old Testament almost from beginning to end — Noah, Abraham, Moses, Job. To stand there was to see scripture unfolding in pigment. It reminded me that conviction is not only written in books, but also drawn on walls, sung in songs, and carried in memory. Presence, absence, reinterpretation — all in one cloister.
Beyond Pisa, I visited Terra di Seta, a vineyard producing kosher wine in the heart of Tuscany. Every stage of its production reflects conviction — to uphold Jewish law, to create joy and sanctity in a landscape where Jewish life is often only memory. To taste that wine was to taste continuity, rooted and renewed.
Pitigliano, La Piccola Gerusalemme, was a surprise carved into stone. A town where Jews once found refuge, it still holds its synagogue, its matzah oven, its mikveh. There, I joined in prayer and song, adding my voice to centuries of voices. We sang Im Eshkachech Yerushalayim — If I forget you, O Jerusalem — in Hebrew, in Tuscany, in a place that carries both exile and home. It was a moment of conviction and belonging all at once.
And finally, there was Saturnia. The hot springs, milky-blue and steaming, poured over rock terraces into pools where we sat and laughed and breathed. I dipped into the water — not hummus this time, but healing. Renewal after confinement, warmth after struggle.
Tuscany gave me beauty, history, wine, prayer, and water. But more than that, it gave me conviction: that science can survive silencing, that Jewish life can sanctify wine and stone, that prayers can echo across centuries, and that healing can be found in the simplest dip beneath the surface.
