Behind a massive eruption of sky-scrapers, the Chinese port city has enclaves of exquisite colonial architecture. But for how much longer? Alexandra Foges meets defenders of the treasure

There was, I happily admit, something distinctly perverse about my approach to Shanghai. Here was a city fixated on the future, a place that had taken a great leap fast-forward into the twenty-first century, and here was I preparing to go there by sitting on a shady veranda high above Hong Kong, reading a dog-eared copy of a book called All About Shanghai, published in 1934. Of course, I had a file full of up-to-the-minute facts about the city's spectacular economic growth (in the double digits since 1992), its pollution (China burns 1.6 billion tons of coal a year), its infatuation with the high-end fruits of capitalism (Cartier, Vuitton, and Ferrari sales are way up), its transportation system (the Maglev is the world's fastest train), and the futuristic skyline of Pudong (where the tallest building on earth is under construction). And yet I kept returning to the frayed old book to learn more about a world that had ceased to exist long ago. Or had it?

According to my book, Shanghai in 1934 was "the Paris of the East, the New York of the West…an immense and modern city of well-paved streets and luxurious hotels." There was helpful information on the various social clubs, the "most cosmopolitan" being the Cercle Sportif Français. On retail therapy: "For women who like to shop—and they all do—Shanghai is a Paradise" where "lingerie will be made to your own design and fancy in a few hours." And advice on how to treat rickshaw drivers: "Rickshaw coolies live in dire poverty; pay them liberally but not foolishly, for it is an idiosyncrasy of the coolie mind to mistake generosity for idiocy." There was an ad for the Canidrome Ballroom, the "Rendezvous for Shanghai's Elite," with Buck Clayton and his Harlem Gentlemen providing the music, as well as a list of useful pidgin English words such as solly (sorry), savvy box (brain), and bym-bye makee pay (I'll pay later). It is probably safe to assume that a Westerner with even half a savvy box would have used the last a lot more frequently than the first in his dealings with the locals.

My host in Hong Kong, a friend from my days at Oxford, insisted that I keep his book and, sensing my penchant for the old and slightly seedy, made a reservation for me at a Shanghai hotel called the Rui Jin Guesthouse, a sprawling 1920s Tudor villa set in its own gardens, in the middle of the French Concession, the former colonial quarter. So the next day I arrived at Pudong International Airport equipped with my wildly out-of-date guidebook, not a single word of Mandarin, and a scrap of paper to give to the cabdriver with the Rui Jin's address written on it in spidery Chinese characters.

Nothing, I discovered, can prepare you for the electric shock of the new that hits you the instant you land. At the airport, I looked up and saw thousands of shimmering steel needles—space-age stalactites—suspended from the ceiling. An almost celestial light flooded the immense white space, and strangely hypnotic announcements floated through the cool air, punctuated by the singsong, whispered word Shanghai. I handed the first driver I saw the bit of paper, and as we flew along the brand-new tagliatelli network of elevated highways, he chattered away, apparently unfazed by my total lack of response. But who needs words when your eyes are being seduced, assaulted, and mesmerized by the images you see as you cross the Huangpu River? One building shone like molten gold; another, the Empire State's taller and far more glamorous younger twin, rose up majestically into the dusky sky, its Art Deco top lit up like a diamond tiara. Gigantic iridescent pink pearls decorated an elongated rocket poised for liftoff, and huge swooping white seagull's wings formed the roof of another building down by the water's edge. As I gazed back at Pudong from Shanghai, a forest of twinkling skyscrapers extended as far as the eye could see, yet by some trick of perspective or light, it didn't look at all real but seemed more like a translucent, surrealistic scrim stretched across a vast, darkened stage.