Rehearsing the questions beforehand might not be entirely useful—the host might not even stick to the script—but it was still a necessary part of the preparation.
In American talk shows, blunt remarks and even public teasing were commonplace. Making fun of celebrities' embarrassing moments was almost a rite of passage. Still, there were boundaries. Take Tom Cruise, for example: rumors about his sexuality were never openly addressed on-air without his consent. At best, they might be hinted at, or joked about in his absence, but never tackled head-on in front of him. That was precisely why the pre-show review was important—producers had to know the guest's limits.
Of course, exceptions existed. Some shows would risk provoking their guests in pursuit of higher ratings. But that sort of ambush wasn't going to happen on The Oprah Winfrey Show. Oprah's entire brand was about healing, warmth, and comfort—sprinkled with humor and sharpness, yes, but never cruelty. As a savvy and empathetic host, she knew how to walk that fine line.
When Joseph returned to the hotel, he handed Hugo a so-called "question list." Hugo flipped through it with a grin.
"You really think Oprah's going to stick to this?" he asked, amused.
"No," Joseph replied flatly without even looking up.
"Exactly my thought," Hugo chuckled, though he still skimmed through the pages. The list was, unsurprisingly, a formality. If every guest knew every question in advance, the show would lose its spontaneity and, by extension, its charm. Everyone knew it was more for reassurance than reality.
"Planning to explore the city today?" Joseph asked after a pause. The taping wasn't until tomorrow, and with daylight left, Hugo had plenty of free time.
Hugo glanced back at the papers. The topics were familiar, just a bit more detailed than what other talk shows had covered. What stood out, however, were the extra questions about Uma Thurman—proof that the rumors sparked by the A Few Good Men premiere were still buzzing even after Christmas. No doubt Oprah's questions would cut deeper than most. That was her style, and besides, her show ran for a full forty minutes—with Hugo as the only guest.
Tossing the two A4 sheets onto the coffee table, Hugo stretched. "Why not? I heard Michigan Avenue is the prettiest part of Chicago."
"Chinatown isn't far either. How about dinner there?" Joseph suggested. He was eager for a walk himself. His recent Christmas visit home had left him in a heavy mood, and this trip was the perfect chance to lighten up.
Chicago's liveliest area was the Loop, but its most beautiful was Michigan Avenue, nicknamed the "Magnificent Mile" and often compared to the Champs-Élysées in Paris. Their hotel, the Four Seasons, sat at the avenue's north end, offering panoramic views of Lake Michigan and a commanding vantage point over the historic city.
Michigan Avenue earned its reputation not just for its beauty, but also for its elegance. Luxury hotels, designer shops, and gleaming architecture lined the boulevard. Traffic buzzed endlessly, weaving through the canyon of lights. When Hugo and Joseph left the hotel, the sun was setting. Skyscrapers slowly lit up, their silhouettes carving a bold arc against the crimson sky. Some spires sent searchlights shooting skyward, as if God Himself were keeping watch over the city.
Heading south, they soon passed the historic Chicago Water Tower. At just forty-two meters tall, it was dwarfed by the towering buildings around it, yet its yellow limestone façade exuded a stately, old-world charm. Built in 1869, it had borne silent witness to Chicago's trials and triumphs.
At intersections, the gaps between the skyscrapers funneled the winds from Lake Michigan, turning them into violent gusts. Most pedestrians hurried forward with heads bent, as if afraid a moment's hesitation might blow them away. But those who dared to slow down were rewarded with glimpses of sailboats, yachts, and motorboats leaving ripples across the lake, a scene of serenity set against the city's bustle.
Not that Hugo and Joseph could afford to linger. The wind shoved their steps sideways, their eyes watered to the point of near-blindness, and they found themselves half-running just to find shelter between buildings.
In Chicago, walking wasn't really walking—it was an endurance sport.
By the time they reached the end of the Magnificent Mile, Chinatown was nowhere in sight. Hugo finally asked a passerby, only to learn that Chinatown was on the city's South Side—thirty miles away. Even by car, it would take forty minutes. Walking there was out of the question.
"Not far? On foot? You're kidding, right?" Hugo teased, shooting Joseph a look.
Joseph flushed slightly but refused to admit fault. His eyes darted away, then settled on the stream of traffic. Without missing a beat, he waved down a cab, opened the door, and said coolly, "You can't walk, but there are cars. This is America, after all—a country on wheels. So, are you coming or not?"
Hugo burst out laughing at Joseph's shameless change of subject. When Joseph pretended to climb in without him, Hugo quickly followed, still chuckling, and told the driver, "Chinatown, please."
As the cab pulled away, Hugo glanced at Joseph's carefully composed expression—and broke into another round of laughter, much to Joseph's exasperation. Their laughter echoed along Chicago's busy streets.
Chinatown's main thoroughfare was Wentworth Avenue. Even from a distance, they spotted its bright red gate. Up close, the ornate archway revealed itself in full—traditional four-eaved roof, crimson pillars, red lanterns swaying at its sides, and banners flying both the American and Chinese flags. Across the top, in bold calligraphy, were the words: All Under Heaven Belongs to the People.
The familiar atmosphere of home washed over Hugo, and he immediately lit up with excitement.
Walking down Wentworth Avenue, the two men passed rows of bustling shops—restaurants, gift stores, and grocery markets. To the left of the grand arch stood a building steeped in Chinese tradition with the inscription "On Leong Merchants Association." A closer look at the plaque revealed it was the headquarters of the local Chinese business guild. Next to it stood the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association, and just beyond that was a library. From the outside, the library looked enormous—at least ten thousand square feet—large enough to spark Hugo's curiosity about what might be inside. Unfortunately, the sun was already setting and the library was closed for the day.
The sight of the familiar square Chinese characters stirred a deep nostalgia in Hugo. Ever since his transmigration, he had spoken, read, and written English with ease, never once feeling out of place. Yet at his core, he still longed for the Chinese script of his youth. Not only was it the language he had grown up with, it was also undeniable proof of where his soul truly came from. Still, most of the signage here was in traditional Chinese characters, reminding him once again that this was a foreign land.
"So, what's for dinner?" Joseph asked, noticing the spark of excitement in Hugo's eyes. He couldn't fully understand the source of that emotion, but he couldn't help catching Hugo's mood and feeling cheerful himself.
"Wow, let me see," Hugo blurted out in Chinese before he realized it. Joseph stared at him in surprise, and Hugo quickly tried to cover it up. "Uh, I studied Chinese back in college. You didn't know?"
His past self, Hugo had majored in classical literature at Yale, which also explained why between 1982 and 1989 he had acted in only five films. That fact had surprised Hugo when the memory returned to him. For a moment, he had even doubted its authenticity—his predecessor never struck him as someone who would pursue a degree in classical studies.
He had no idea whether studying at Yale had been his own decision, Ron Meyer's idea, or perhaps Adam Lancaster's suggestion. Either way, Hugo was grateful that his predecessor had stuck with it; that persistence was rare and valuable. It probably also explained why he had delivered such a remarkable performance in Dead Poets Society. The film's students were portrayed as deeply passionate about classical poetry, using verse to express their longing for freedom and individuality—something Hugo's background had helped him embody so naturally.
Joseph blinked, still surprised. "I honestly didn't know that."
It seemed he bought the explanation, and Hugo let out a quiet sigh of relief. Thinking quickly, he added, "Actually, I wanted to take East Asian literature courses at the time. I've always had a strong interest in Eastern culture." That way, Joseph could better understand Hugo's ongoing fascination with Chinese traditions—a curiosity that was bound to surface more often in the future.
"Yes, China really is a remarkable country," Joseph said, nodding. His suspicion gone, he glanced at the signs around them. "Look at these characters—it's hard to imagine how people even manage to read something that complex. And the food! Can you even picture it?"
Watching Joseph marvel, Hugo chuckled warmly. "I couldn't agree more." But before he could finish speaking, a sudden commotion erupted nearby. The noise swelled quickly, drawing a crowd in their direction. Hugo and Joseph froze in place, scanning the street in confusion. Something was happening.
....
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