A passion to strive towards excellence has made Dr. Lupoli a long-standing favorite among many brilliant teachers at The Cardinals High School in La Jolla, California. For 34 years, Otto has taught Art History as well as courses in Medieval and European History, Ancient Languages and the History of Religions. His wealth of knowledge was cultivated in him as a child when a family friend, Countess Camilla Propio dé Rossi, said to his mother, "Josephine, why don't we send Otto to a good school–to a Jesuit boarding school."

Such began Otto's rigorous education. He spent the next 8 years attending primary school in his hometown of Saluzzo, an ancient city tucked in the northwestern Alpine section of Italy founded long before the time of Christ. The school was located in a former castle, which had no hot water but had been mentioned by Ptolemy, Dante, Boccaccio and even Leonardo da Vinci. Their curriculum was demanding and, each morning, after reciting a page-long poem, the students were expected to jump into the river before receiving, "a nice piece of bread and a big piece of chocolate."

Otto aspired to become a great scholar and once the dust had settled, his formal education included a Letterarium Doctor degree in Art History from the University of Milan and a PhD in Classical Languages and Literatures from King's College, University of London. He studied philosophy under Pierre Teilhard de Chardin and took classes from Professor Mario Untersteiner who, Otto remembers, opened his eyes to the beauty of the Greek tragedy. At the time Untersteiner was conducting groundbreaking work on the ancient Akkadian language and invited Otto to focus his dissertation on Babylonian thought.

With his formal education complete, Otto became a priest. He was first assigned to assist the Patriarch of Jerusalem. At another time he accompanied, as a translator and confidante, an American Archbishop to an audience with Pope John XXIII. A few days later, Otto was invited to work directly for the Pontiff. "Nothing too stately, I was just one of many advisors," says Otto.

His scholarly dreams were interrupted when he was sent to Los Angeles. "There was a dispute among the Dioceses of Orange County, Irvine and Huntington Beach," Otto explains. "I was sent to help solve the problem." At the end of the assignment, he decided not to return to Europe.

"During my absence I had missed new works, new theories, new excavations," says Otto. "I felt I had become a second class scholar. Didn't Julius Caesar say that he preferred to be the first in a village than the second in Rome?"

Otto's sizable savings soon dissipated. Subsequently, he made himself available as a professor for top tier and classically minded private high schools in Southern California. Apparently, the blue Pacific waters and citrus trees called to Otto in the same fashion as the Mediterranean. Thus began Otto's 34-year tenure at The Cardinals High School.

Last semester, at the tail end of my high school career, I was fortunate enough to take Art History from Dr. Lupoli. Otto effortlessly taught me to differentiate between Manet and Monet, between a Rousseau and a Renoir. During lunchtime, I never hesitated to sacrifice my usual game of lacrosse in exchange for a private conversation with Otto in his corner office. He'd run his small, polished hands over parchment maps, names and dates falling from his lips as if he'd lived each event personally while I sat speechless, scribbling down a deluge of notes. The man, though diminutive in stature and eighty-nine years old, forged a dynamic and giant impression in my mind.

At the end of each academic year, Dr. Lupoli leads a dozen juniors and seniors through the cultural landmarks of Europe. After speaking with Cardinal's alumni, I've gathered that this international trip is not to be missed. Since this year was my graduating year, I couldn't afford to miss my chance to weave through Athenian columns, Austrian fortresses and Spanish citadels with a genuine scholar from the Vatican. I petitioned my parents nightly, reasoning for their financial support. I vowed to put in extra hours at the tennis shop in August to help pay expenses. Well–it appears my efforts paid off, as I've just spent the better part of June exploring the ruins of Brittany and the spires of the Ottoman Empire.

Last week, on the final evening of our tour, Otto had the foresight to reserve tickets at the Shakespeare Globe Theatre. Our itinerary had us flying, the following morning, from Heathrow to JFK but our learned sage insisted we experience the Bard on his native stage, in Stratford-upon-Avon. I couldn't have been more appreciative.

By 8 p.m. we'd cleaned up and found our seats–just left of center but close enough to see the whites in Friar Lawrence's eyes. Dr. Lupoli had worked his magic again. Apparently, Otto had provided pro bono Latin tutoring to the current director of the Globe Theatre in 1967. So, to our good fortune, the director returned the favor by rewarding our entire group with first class seats.

The show was a success, each scene unfolded impeccably and I even watched a tear well up in Otto's eye as Juliet fell upon her 'rapier's point.' I was also swept up in the tragedy and counted myself doubly blessed because I knew Otto would debrief the class on the subtle complexities of rhyme and meter while we drove back to our hotel.

Montague wrapped things up wonderfully and velvet curtains draped past the players on stage. Harps and viola filled the ornate ceiling space. My peers and I clapped as enthusiastically as we thought appropriate. We beamed satisfaction and neatly sidestepped out of our row. Dr. Lupoli nodded and flashed an erudite smile my direction, which meant he was well aware that we'd all just witnessed exemplary theatre.

The show was sold-out so our class had to wait for a few minutes while the row filtered out. As I looked around the audience I was surprised to see that Jenna Bush, our current president's daughter, was also in attendance that evening. As I later learned, she had recently finished a Christian pilgrimage through the Spanish countryside and stopped in London for the weekend before returning to Texas. Jenna looked cherubic and quite attractive in a green cotton dress with a white hip sash. She fidgeted impatiently with friends in the row directly behind us and was flanked by two heavy-set bodyguards.

To pass time while the row cleared, Dr. Lupoli and I chatted about the details of the set design–the lush orchards, the vibrant streets scenes of Verona. We were both satisfied and relaxed but nonetheless anxious to get outside and take in the damp evening air. From the corner of my eye I couldn't help but notice that the bigger of the two bodyguards seemed to be growing more irritated and edgy by the minute. I overheard him complaining to his partner about the excessive length of the performance and, "why the fuck couldn't she figure out if Romeo was actually dead before she knifed herself."

I preoccupied Otto with more small talk so that his focus wouldn't shift towards the vulgarities spewing out of the bodyguard's mouth. The brutish escort sort of looked like a stunt double for Troy Aikman. He began muttering under his breath and making these short, ugly karate chops at the floor. The other bodyguard seemed to be distancing himself from Troy but also trying to console him, "easy buddy...we'll be out of here in no time...keep it together."

Jenna and her friends were giggling and oblivious to the irreverence of her escort. Troy stretched out his neck and violently leaned backwards and sideways, popping his vertebrae and airing out his chest. I felt really uncomfortable in his presence–but in the moment, I didn't think anything would come of it.

Now, here comes the troubling and awkward section of my otherwise fond recollection of Otto and our European vacation. The Bush entourage had matched our slow progress exiting the row and, therefore, after idling for a few minutes, our two separate groups entered the left aisle simultaneously. Now, what happened next is sort of a terrible blur in my mind. I do, however, remember that it was entirely devoid of context and occurred with only the slightest provocation. It was as if the entire incident happened in a vacuum, unconnected with the fabric of the evening.

In an attempt to point out the Parian marble balustrades, Dr. Lupoli excitedly stepped in front of the Bush entourage and rushed towards the railings along the staircase. Otto turned to face his class, "Boys and girls, this is a wonderful specimen of the same raw element used in the Classical Age of Greece," Otto's eighty-nine year old face was gushing with scholarly memories. "Perhaps you will remember the afternoon we spent with a certain statue, the Venus de Milo, on our visit to the Louvre? Well, that too was a splendid example of Parian marble."

As my peers crowded in towards the marble balustrade and Dr. Lupoli expanded with his impromptu lesson, the bodyguards became boxed into their row. This didn't sit well with Troy. I could hear his molars grinding, I looked down and saw his fists clench and whiten with aggravation. Otto continued gesticulating at the staircase, his small arms waving above his head, "See, the entire history of Greece was once recorded in the Parian chronicles, each stone meticulously hand carved, of course!"

And that was it–the brute snapped. Troy lunged at my Art History professor and wrapped his mongoloid hands around Dr. Lupoli's delicate, wrinkled neck. Otto squealed like a piglet as his leather shoes lifted off the floor and swung like a pendulum. The tip of Otto's tongue became trapped in his clamped teeth and it flapped limply against his bottom lip. Bubbles of spittle popped from the corner of Otto's mouth then slid down his reddened jowls. Our class froze; Jenna froze. Our esteemed professor dangled like a rag doll.

Troy, seemingly pleased, smiled demonically as he hoisted Otto until the two men were eye to eye. The brute's manic fingers pushed the loose skin from Otto's neck up along his jawbone. I am ashamed to admit that I didn't react, I never rose to defend my teacher–the spectacle was too surreal, too shocking to digest. In hindsight, I wished I had kicked at Troy's shins or something, anything... but as it was, I just stood with my mouth open and observed.

Dr. Lupoli's Scottish tweed suit bunched awkwardly around his ears; his voice box became jammed, muting any audible cry for help. Troy stared vacantly at Otto's bulging eyes and purpling skin. He tightened his quarterback hands for a few more wretched moments. I actually don't remember any noise accompanying the entire incident. It truly felt like a singular, isolated moment–separate and untethered from the rest of humanity...

Hours passed, minutes passed–I'm not sure–I presume only seconds passed but finally Troy became bored or satisfied or else his partner intervened. Either way, Otto was dropped to the floor and I rushed over to help straighten out his collar and slacks.

And that was it–the atrocity passed as quickly as it approached. I ran to fetch Dr. Lupoli a glass of water but once I returned, the crowds had dissipated, the Bush entourage had sped off in a hired car service and our student group was loading into the rental van. Otto waited solemnly behind the wheel. Our evening was finished, as was an otherwise perfect European tour. Otto never pressed charges and nobody mentioned a word of it again.

Kevin Patrick Curran