From my airplane window, the Pearl River unfurled from fogged mountains in a glossy, pale-blue ribbon, a magisterial curve of water that defined the landscape with its flow. I found myself craning my head to follow the river’s path as it wound past small towns and big factories. Several squiggles later, it ran under a series of bridges, moving in and out of view. If I squinted at the scene just so, it looked like something out of time, a misty morning painted on a scroll.
As the plane began its descent into Baiyun International Airport—the busiest airport in China, handling more than 76 million passengers in 2024—the greenery gave way to concrete and skyscrapers, and the fog started to look a lot more like smog. That a classical-era landscape still existed here in Guangzhou, of course, was a romantic thought.
The port city on the Maritime Silk Road was once known to Westerners as Canton, where China first opened to the wider world—and by 1757, it was the only Chinese port where foreign trade was permitted. Guangzhou is today one of the most populated metropolitan areas on Earth. Sitting beside me on the flight was my younger son, Teddy, 11, who pressed his face against the window, his bright eyes already taking in all the details and contradictions. He had visited Guangzhou just once, as a plump-cheeked toddler, but had no memory of the place. He asked me if we could take a photo of the river, so he could sketch it later.
Left: Overlooking the Pearl River, witht he Guangzhou Circle building in the middle, seen from the flight into Guanzhou Baiyun Airport; Right: Koi Fish in the pond of the Yu Yin Classical Garden.
Photo by An Rong Xu
My own first trip to Guangzhou took place almost 20 years ago, after my parents divorced and my father moved from New York back to Hong Kong, where he was born, and then to mainland China. Every couple of years I make my way to Guangzhou to visit him; every time, I observe seismic changes to the skyline. As an international center of trade and manufacturing, the city is constantly reinventing itself, looking toward the future.
The trips to Guangzhou punctuated my life at key junctures: as a recent college graduate working at a magazine in New York; as a just-married writer who’d moved to San Francisco; as an anxious young mother flying with two children under four; as a dutiful daughter who, for many years, decided that maybe it was just easier to make the journey alone.
I haven’t always loved coming to Guangzhou, because coming to Guangzhou meant that I was once again the one to make the long trip to see my dad, an artist whose work hangs in Beijing’s Guanfu Museum, the first private art museum in China. That painting, a large-scale oil portrait on salvaged wood, merges Western techniques he’d perfected in America with classical-period Chinese subject matter, and it marked his departure from commercial work for the world of fine art. In my mind, the painting also marked his departure from my mother, my brother, and me, as an intact family.
After he’d left, when I was a teenager, I resented the fact that I never knew when I’d see him again; as an adult, I was resentful that I always had to be the one to come to him. In the past, this sense of duty meant that I didn’t really appreciate Guangzhou for all that it was, in part because my father lives something of a hermetic existence; we’d always prioritized homebody experiences over getting out to explore the city.
This time, though, with Teddy as a fledgling artist who had started exchanging artwork with my father via text message, it felt right to bring him along. Over the next five days, maybe my son could help me see Guangzhou, and his grandfather, in a different
”In Guangzhou, they’re always building and making something new,” my stepmother remarked the next morning during a taxi ride around the city. The sense that things could pop up overnight was evident; the swirling copper infinity circles of Infinitus Plaza, completed by Zaha Hadid Architects during the pandemic, were an experiment in green roof and rainwater harvesting systems. (The late Hadid also designed the iconic Guangzhou Opera House, one of her first projects in China.) My father pointed out the Canton Tower, a twisting, 112-story structure built in 2010 that was for a few years the tallest building in the world, and the Guangzhou Circle building, which looked to me like a giant piece of alien currency: a 33-story gold coin with a hole in the middle. “It’s like a glittery gold doughnut!” Teddy exclaimed, taking his one-millionth photo of the morning.
Visitors looking at the Wang YiFan’s, Dream Chasers at the Guangdong Museum of Art.
Photo by An Rong Xu
Our destination was the recently opened Guangdong Museum of Art, situated in a soaring cultural complex that resembles a cubist cruise ship docked along the Pearl River.
Inside, one exhibit presented prominent artists from Guangzhou alongside peers from Beijing and Shanghai, part of a national effort to recognize Guangdong Province’s position at the frontier of globalization and artistic innovation. The booming art scene in the Pearl River Delta region dates to the 1990s, when the first wave of transformation was brought on by Communist leader Deng Xiaoping’s economic reforms. In front of an oil painting of a pink-suited man wearing a stylized white mask, I paused in recognition—it was by Zeng Fanzhi, one of China’s most celebrated artists, with whom my father once had a gallery show in Beijing. Seeing the piece, my father remarked with a laugh, “We showed our work together back then—he’s very famous now, but I’m not!”
Unlike most other museums in China, the Guangdong Museum of Art has English signage in its exhibits. At the time of our visit, it had been open for just six months and was still a work in progress; the café and gift shop weren’t completely operational, and audio guides were limited to Chinese. But one 12-part video, Building a Museum, managed to capture the scale of ambition that drives such a massive enterprise: From 2020 to 2022, the performance artist Li Binyuan joined the initial construction of the museum, working on-site as a laborer by day and performing dramatic pieces alone after hours, recording both identities in the process.
As I watched my father—pensive in front of some artwork, and posing for funny photos with Teddy in front of others—I was reminded that we contain multitudes.
There’s a stereotype in China that while people from Shanghai spend all their money on fashion, people from Guangzhou spend all their money on food. In the mid-19th century, the Cantonese were the intrepid immigrants who left Guangdong Province for California; theirs was the diaspora that established the first Chinatowns and introduced such beloved traditional foods as dim sum, barbecued roast pork, and wonton noodle soup to America—and the world.
Left: The food spread at Nanxin Milk Desserts Experts; Right: An old colonial building on Shamian Island.
Photo by An Rong Xu
But Cantonese food in China goes beyond these staples. The next day, before the subtropical heat hit its lunchtime peak, we headed to the narrow lanes and pedestrian arcades of the city’s historic Liwan District on a pilgrimage to Nanxin Milk Desserts Expert. A famous dessert house first opened in 1934, it occupies two stories of a landmark building. A host led us up the curving staircase to a table by the window, where we ordered an array of hot and cold Cantonese dessert soups: ginger buffalo-milk custard, sweet red bean, silky tofu pudding with syrup, chunky mango with grapefruit pearl.
My father’s longtime favorite has always been the black sesame soup— the paste smooth and dark as night, served hot—topped by chewy, ping-pong ball–size rice dumplings filled with sweet peanut paste. Teddy threw back two bowls of the mango soup and a plate of shrimp dumplings, sautéed local greens, and beef rice noodles—and asked if we could come back the next day. (We did.)
Not far from Liwan, on another morning, we went for a stroll on manicured Shamian Island, a public park where the first British and French concessions for foreign merchants were established in the 1800s. We walked along the river on pedestrian paths shaded by banyan and camphor trees and lined with neoclassical mansions and government buildings marked with brass plaques.
In one of these heritage buildings, we stumbled onto a small, curated collection of clothing, crafts, and jewelry. Among the booths selling keychains, ceramics, and handbags, there was a wall display of handmade contemporary postcards with translucent slide-film photographs of local scenes embedded in the card stock.
The slide-film postcards jogged loose a memory: When I was young, my father had a light box in his studio, on which he examined slides of art and reference photographs with a loupe. He’d print his chosen images large, to pin up next to his canvas for inspiration as he worked. Later, when I was in high school and deciding whether to pursue the visual arts, I had slides made of my own art portfolio.
In the shop, I held the postcards up to the light: koi-shaped lanterns at night; a spire-filled downtown skyline with Canton Tower as the centerpiece; a view of the Pearl River from Shamian, the water a striking slash of green.
Left: An imperial seal on display at the Yu Yin Classical Garden.
Photo by An Rong Xu
There’s truth to a vision that blurs past and present, to the notion of palimpsest, of the old peeking out from the new. Guangzhou was constantly revealing itself to us that way. So was my father. Though I used to get frustrated at him for not visiting us more in California—Didn’t he miss us? Didn’t he want to know the boys?—I now understood that he showed us love in his own way.
Asking what foods we wanted most to eat, cuing up favorite films for us to watch, bringing out old paintings, showing Teddy the correct way to punch the heavy bag in the home gym.
Over the next few days, my father absorbed Teddy into his comfort zone, touring him around the art studio. He showed Teddy a photo he’d taken of his baby face on our last visit to Guangzhou, which served as the background photo on his computer monitor. “Teddy,” he said, “I look at you every day.”
On our second-to-last morning, Teddy and I hopped in an electric taxi to visit one more spot. My father wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed behind, but I wanted Teddy to see Yuyin Shanfang. Among his grandfather’s favorite places in Guangzhou, and mine, it’s one of Guangdong Province’s four classical gardens from the Qing dynasty (1644–1912). When my father first moved to this part of China, he found inspiration for some of his paintings here. Covering less than half an acre, it’s famous for its exquisite Lingnan architecture, which includes open-air pavilions, courtyards and narrow alleys, colorful stained glass, decorative relief carvings and sculptures, meticulously tended gardens, and koi ponds.
Visitors posing for photos inside of the Yu Yin Classical Garden in Guangzhou.
Photo by An Rong Xu
The moment we stepped through the stone doorway and saw the bougainvillea bonsai, Teddy was smitten. From a waterside pavilion that featured a different view from each of its eight sides, he fed the resident koi, a flashing stream of orange, white, and black that then followed him as he crossed from bridge to bridge, sometimes dispersing, other times coming back to see if he had any remaining treats. In one courtyard shop, a young woman with fast fingers strung jade bracelets for us with our Chinese names. Teddy shyly thanked her in Mandarin, and I felt a swell of joy as he examined the delicate gold characters painted on the beads.
As we were on our way out, a camera crew brought a group of women dressed in classical period costume into one of the water pavilions. We paused to watch. They were shooting a television commercial for Chinese liquor. After Teddy attempted a photobomb, we went home, showed my dad the videos, and shared the news about Yuyin’s brand-new dessert café—where he could now get his ginger buffalo-milk custard and black sesame soup just 10 minutes from home.
What else will be different when we return to Guangzhou? My father is getting older, and so am I. I’d like to think that the next time I visit, I’ll be able to add yet another self—a gentler, more accepting one—to the many-layered person I am, and to imagine the same possibility for my dad. After all, reality is messy, complicated, not neatly contained within the confines of an airplane window.
A few weeks after we returned home, my father sent me a text: “Been thinking of you. Teddy reminds me of you when you were a kid. Love you guys.”
I think then about the gardens. How we watched the koi swim apart to the far corners of the pond, before coming back together again.
The Afar Guide to Guangzhou, China
Left: A stain glass window inside of the Yu Yin Classical Garden; Right: a busy shooting street in the Liwan District.
Photos by An Rong Xu
Due to its location at the head of the Pearl River, Guangzhou has long been an important commercial and trading center. Once a key port on the Maritime Silk Road, today it’s one of China’s largest cities, renowned for its arts, crafts, and cuisine. —Katherine LaGrave
Where to stay
Renovated in 2021, the Ritz-Carlton is steps from the Pearl River, and all 351 rooms and suites—complete with marble bathrooms, feather beds, and walk-in closets—feature views of either the water or the bustling cityscape below. The spa, including a fitness center and heated outdoor pool, covers an entire 43,000-square-foot hotel floor.
Conveniently located in the center of downtown, the Mandarin Oriental debuted in 2013 with 263 rooms that are some of the largest in the city. Jiang by Chef Fei is one of three restaurants with two Michelin stars in Guangzhou; for a more casual treat, sit for a while in the lobby’s very Instagrammable cake shop, where intricate confections, available with coffee and tea, are displayed in elegant glass cases.
Where to eat
Nanxin Milk Desserts Expert has been in business since 1934 and, despite its name, serves solid savory fare such as wonton soup and noodles with brisket. Standouts here, though, are the milks and soups; the restaurant’s panna cotta–like double skin milk (a concoction with milk, egg whites, and sugar) is silky, smooth, and one of the best in town.
In 2024, Yong became the first Guangzhou restaurant to receive a Michelin Green Star for its commitment to sustainability. Housed in a century-old heritage building, it offers a fixed-price Szechuan menu sourced largely from local ingredients; the housemade pickles are a delight.
Go hungry—and ideally, with a group—to wander Xihua Road, which is packed with casual eateries serving everything from hand-ground black sesame soup to steamed rice-noodle rolls.
What to do
Opened in May 2024 on the banks of the Pearl River, the swan-shaped Bai’etan Greater Bay Area Art Center comprises three impressive museums: the Guangdong Museum of Art, the Guangdong Literature Museum, and the Guangdong Intangible Cultural Heritage Museum.
Tiny Shamian (which translates to “sandy surface”) is a tranquil, walkable island with tree-lined avenues and European-style 19th-century buildings, a “look” largely owing to its past: In 1859 it was divided into two concessions, given to France and the United Kingdom until 1943.
Chen Clan Ancestral Hall was completed in 1894 and served as a temple, school, and gathering place for Chen family members from 72 counties in Guangdong Province. Now home to the Guangdong Museum of Folk Arts, the complex is a premier example of traditional Lingnan architecture, with brick, stone, and wood carvings.
Get there (and get around)
Under China’s visa-free travel program, citizens from 54 countries—the United States among them—can stay up to 10 days in cities including Guangzhou without a visa, provided they have a valid passport and return ticket.
With 16 lines and 302 stations, the Guangzhou Metro operates from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. daily. Extensive and fast, it has elevators and escalators at all stations and announcements in Cantonese, Mandarin, and English. DiDi, a ride-sharing app similar to Uber, is available in English.
