I feel like Dorothy, and this looks like the Emerald City. It's evening in Shenzhen and I'm trudging along a busy road on my way back to the hotel after a day of exploration. As the sun dips behind the glitzy skyline, it casts a hazy glow on the brilliant green spires of Shun Hing Square. Photo: See Shun Hing Square

A bulky bag filled with camera equipment is strapped to my back. I balance the weight by leaning forward at a near-90-degree angle. My silhouette on the sidewalk seems a peculiar site, like a turtle overburdened by its shell. But no one pays any attention to me, not even when I plop down on a stool at a noisy noodle shop and wriggle out from under the heavy pack.

That is, until I open my mouth.

"Um, duibuji (sorry), I don't speak Chinese," I say to the waiter as he hands me a menu.

He peers at my face, confused. Curious patrons glance my way. I shrug and try to smile. The waiter hands me a different menu, this one filled with lots of pictures of the dishes. I select a dish at random and sit back, relieved that the awkward exchange is over.

The waiter's confusion is understandable. With my father's round face, crescent eyes and bubble nose, I look as Chinese as you can get. Had my dad known

that I would live during what could become known as "China's century," I bet he would have given me more than his features. He would have taught me a bit of the language, too.

In the 1940s, my dad thought China was too tradition-bound. That's why he moved from his hometown of Xinhui, a village about 60 miles from Shenzhen, to Saigon, the largest city in Vietnam, now known as Ho Chi Minh City.

In those years, Saigon operated as a free-market economy, which suited my dad's entrepreneurial spirit. He ran a successful paper-clip business until the Vietnam War sent him fleeing to rural North Carolina.

Though my dad was in love with the Chinese language, he was convinced that it was a language of the past. So instead, I learned English with the fluency -- and maybe some of the drawl -- of a native Southerner. I even adopted Spanish as a second language of my own, as a way to get a leg up in the business world.

But the China I am visiting as the producer for this series is not the chuang-tong -- old-fashioned -- country my father left behind. Map: See where we went

Looking through the dirty windows of the noodle shop,

I can see side-by-side billboards advertising Chinese green tea and Jim Beam whiskey, vendors selling pots and pans next to a Wal-Mart Supercenter, and bicycles sharing the road with double-decker buses and shiny automobiles. Today China is moving beyond industrialization to become a remarkably cosmopolitan society.

Perched on my stool, I stare glumly at the bowl of pan-fried ginger eel my waiter has brought. I had heard so much about people in other countries learning English that the very idea that I should learn Chinese was, well, foreign to me.

The Chinese are certainly learning English. To prepare for roles in an increasingly global society, all Chinese elementary school students study both English and Mandarin Chinese, the dialect dominant in Beijing. In the U.S., most schools don't offer Chinese-language classes as an option, even though Mandarin is the most widely spoken language on earth.

As I ponder my misspent youth, the man at the next table approaches.

"Ni hao (Hello)."

"Er … wu bu shi Zhongguo ren (I am not Chinese)," I say.

This was a half-lie, but a good way to avoid lengthy explanations and awkward conversation. The man laughs and shakes his head.

"No, no. Not wu. Wu-oooooooo."

He opens his mouth wide and dips his voice down and back up. He motions for me to do the same.

Great, I thought, a language lesson. I imitate his facial features, pull my chin down and pucker my lips until my mouth forms a perfect "O."

"Wu-oooooo-ooo."

The man nods, satisfied.

That night, I begin to practice the few words I have learned, listening to the sounds roll off my tongue and emphasizing the cadence of the language, like a child reciting a nursery rhyme. All the while, I muse over the irony of the situation. My father left China convinced that Chinese society was stagnant. I have returned as a journalist to report on the country's tremendous growth and opportunity.

The change is evident in the countless interviews we record as we traverse the country. The Chinese know their moment is just around the corner. There is an

energy pulsating in the air, a feeling that China is on the brink of something huge. I am wholly caught up in it and am falling in love with the Chinese language and culture. If my dad were with me, he too would be falling back in love. My dad and me

Produced by Anh Ly
Graphics by Joe Farro and Hakan Isik

Published June 29, 2007