Shanghai

Stepping into Yuyuan Garden is like accidentally stumbling through a wormhole from bustling, skyscraper-studded Shanghai straight into 16th-century Ming Dynasty elegance-assuming Ming elites had a thing for crowds and selfie sticks. Nestled defiantly in the Old City, this ornate riot of zigzagging bridges, dragon-headed walls, and meticulously manicured rockeries harks back to an era when emperors dictated garden aesthetics instead of Communist Party committees. Aim to stroll through early on a weekday morning, when the tourist hordes are limited to eager retirees practicing tai chi, and planning a week ahead gives you smug bragging rights (though frankly, the garden's timeless tranquility slightly diminishes when rubbing shoulders with 300 other camera-snappers). Bring about ¥40 for the entrance fee, a trusty pair of walking shoes, and maybe a granola bar-unless you prefer to navigate the surrounding food stands selling suspect squid-on-a-stick and neon-colored juice beverages. Ultimately, meandering through Yuyuan Garden is worth every sweaty minute-partly for the stunning visuals and meditative respite, but mostly for the undeniable bragging rights of having wandered a centuries-old wonderland sandwiched improbably between noodle stalls, knockoff Rolex vendors, and aggressive souvenir hawkers.

Zhujiajiao is Shanghai's unapologetic, postcard-perfect answer to Venice, minus the gondoliers belting Italian opera. Roughly an hour west from the neon frenzy of downtown, this postcard-ready labyrinth of canals, stone bridges, and narrow lanes looks as if it emerged fully formed from an ancient Chinese watercolor. Established over 1,700 years ago, Zhujiajiao has managed to elegantly sidestep the wrecking ball of modernization, retaining its Ming-and-Qing-era charm-think tea houses that haven't dusted their shelves since the last dynastic emperor, and street carts hawking snacks your great-grandfather might remember. Arrive early in the morning if crowds make you twitchy; sunrise casts a golden glow that Instagrammers dream of, and you'll beat the inevitable afternoon swarm of selfie sticks. Budget around 200 RMB per person; street food like sticky rice dumplings (zongzi) and savory braised pork buns won't dent your wallet, but splurge a bit for a leisurely canal boat ride, where your captain might regale you with surprisingly colorful local gossip. Wear comfortable shoes-those picturesque stone pathways were clearly not designed with high heels in mind-and pack tissues for restrooms that err on the rustic side of quaint. Zhujiajiao may be touristy, yes, and slightly kitsch-but it's undeniably beautiful, delightfully strange, and dripping with enough character to warrant exploration, if only to brag over cocktails that you survived the authentic "Chinese Venice" without falling into the canal.

Shanghai Disneyland is Disney with a high-voltage twist-the kind of place Mickey Mouse would stumble out of after a night of baijiu and karaoke, slightly amazed he's still got both ears attached. Nestled perplexingly among the futuristic glass towers and neon-lit boulevards of Pudong, this ambitious mash-up of cuddly Americana and nuanced Chinese culture manages to feel both comfortably nostalgic and intriguingly unfamiliar, like a cover band playing your favorite song with an unexpected guzheng solo. If you're heading in, advance planning is essential: book tickets online at least a week in advance to avoid an epic queue saga worthy of Homer (Simpson, not the Greek one). Early mornings are best for dodging the rush, and you'll thank yourself when you're munching on Mickey-shaped pork buns instead of elbowing through crowds beneath the marvelously surreal, Chinese zodiac-inspired Gardens of Imagination. Budget about 500 RMB per ticket and at least another 150 RMB for snacks, souvenirs, and the delightfully odd local treats you'll inevitably impulse-buy. Bring a rain poncho, sunscreen, an open mind, and a healthy preparedness to embrace Disney's globalized weirdness. Even if roller coasters and fairy princesses aren't your jam, where else can you snap selfies with Darth Vader and a dragon dance troupe in the same overly sanitized, sugar-scented afternoon? Trust me-you'll dine out on stories of this gloriously bizarre East-meets-West extravaganza for years.

Ascending the sleek, twisting facade of Shanghai Tower in Lujiazui feels oddly akin to boarding a spaceship piloted by architects with a flair for drama-and a touch of vertigo-inducing madness. At 632 majestic meters, China's tallest building towers smugly above its neighbors, gleefully overshadowing Jin Mao and the Shanghai World Financial Center, the former titans now a mere chorus line behind this headliner. Arriving early in the morning or late afternoon, when pollution clears and golden hour bathes the futuristic skyline in surreal cinematic glory, is your best bet; book tickets online at least a day or two ahead to dodge queues of selfie-stick-wielding tourists. Pack a camera, cash for souvenirs, and perhaps a small flask to toast humanity's ceaseless quest for height-tickets cost roughly 180 yuan ($25), a small price to pay for bragging rights and the feeling of playing God above 24 million souls scurrying below. While standing atop China's tallest spire may not change your spiritual perspective, sharing anecdotes at cocktail parties about your mild existential panic as Shanghai sprawled beneath your trembling feet will never fail to amuse-even if secretly, you clutched the handrails the entire time.