Luigi Ballerini

"Excuse me," said Professor Ballerini, "I have to put on my cardinal's hat." He stood up from the table, whipped out a red miter and put it on his head. Throwing an arm around a young chef, he jovially announced to the room full of diners: "I am Cardinal Trevisan. I am very rich. My villa rivals the pope's. And this is my chef, maestro Martino."

"Excuse me," said Professor Ballerini, "I have to put on my cardinal's hat." He stood up from the table, whipped out a red miter and put it on his head. Throwing an arm around a young chef, he jovially announced to the room full of diners: "I am Cardinal Trevisan. I am very rich. My villa rivals the pope's. And this is my chef, maestro Martino."

Years ago, Lotte Eisner, a revered figure in Germany's film history and a kind of elder stateswoman to its post-war film makers, fell gravely ill in Paris. Werner Herzog, the most spectacular of the young directors, took a knapsack and a compass and walked from Munich to see her. It was a pilgrim's gesture to hustle fate. "I do not allow her to die," Herzog said. She recovered, in fact.

It is nearly 56 years now. Still they come, pilgrims from across Italy, Italians from around the world. Here, at the wall behind the church on the high hill, one of life's truths is made plain: Death can claim even the greatest of champions, but the heart and soul of a people can carry on. In May 1949, an airplane carrying the Torino Calcio team, arguably the best soccer squad in the world, crashed in heavy fog into the back of the Superga Basilica.

For nine sun-drenched months, Stanislaus von Moos, a leading architectural theorist from Switzerland, lived rent-free in a furnished apartment in Santa Monica. He enjoyed a cozy office with a world-class library and ocean view. On leave from his real job, he was surrounded by fascinating colleagues who, like him, spent their time thinking, reading, doing whatever they wanted--and getting paid for it.