Great specialist of Old Shanghai and author of several books on the topic, Lynn Pan was as discreet as talented. She has recently passed away and will be sadly missed.
Born in Old Shanghai, her family owned major construction company Pan Shang Lin 潘尚林 building firm that was in charge of building Park Hotel and other landmarks of Old Shanghai including the Yangtze Hotel, Picardie Apartments on Heng Shan Road and the head quarters of Bank of China on the Bund. Growing up in Malaysia, she lived in Europe, Hong Kong and Singapore before coming back to her beloved Shanghai. Her books have influenced many and were instrumental in reviving the memory of Old Shanghai and its glory. They included “In search of Old Shanghai” (1982) and “Old Shanghai: Gangsters in Paradise” (1984).
Another landmark was “Shanghai Style: Art and design between the wars” (2008), that rediscovered 海派 / Haipai or Old Shanghai style mixing the Chinese and Western style used in funiture, paintings, posters and other artefacts.
One of my fond memory of her was a speech she gave at the Shanghai International Literary Festival in 2008 or 2009 together with her friends Tess Johnston and Rena Krasno. Together they gave such a vivid picture of Old Shanghai, just like a time travel.
May her memory be blessed.
She sounds like a great lady.
Lynn Pan was great human being and a good true friend…and will be greatly missed by us all.
Sleep well in Paradise, old buddy…until we meet again …somewhere sometime.
Tess (in the waiting room)
I am embarrassed to say I didn’t learn of Lynn Pan’s passing until today, December 30, 2024.
I had the extremely good fortune to meet this wonderful lady on many occasions, and I recall a very lively conversation during the 2008 Shanghai International Literary Festival.
May her memory be a treasure for all who knew her, read her scholarship and fascinating insights, and, through her eyes and our personal experiences, have maintained a deep love and feeling for China and her history.
“When True Love Came to China” is one of my favorites.
Still Wait for Her at That Table
Montreal, Autumn 2025
A friend from New York told me that Lynn Pan passed away last year in Switzerland.
I sat by the small lake in front of my house, reluctant to leave. As the crimson sunset slowly sank below the horizon, my thoughts drifted back to Shanghai, twenty years ago.
1.
It was a dusky afternoon with a bluish-grey sky. I met Lynn Pan for the first time at a photography exhibition on Fuxing Middle Road. The gallery was filled with hushed voices and soft footsteps. On the walls hung Er Dongqiang’s photographs of old Shanghai architecture—Art Deco-style porches, window frames, and carved railings, all whispering stories of a forgotten era under the amber lights.
She stood in front of one photo, tilting her head slightly, as if listening to something. I walked closer and heard her say softly, “This building used to be the Ningbo branch of the China Commercial Bank—a classic example of Art Deco.” Her tone wasn’t boastful, but carried a gentle certainty. I couldn’t help but ask, “Have you studied these buildings?”
She turned to me, her eyes lit up: “I’ve written a bit—about Shanghai’s urban memory.”
We started talking—about architectural styles, urban transformation, Er Dongqiang’s lens, and her childhood streets in London. She said, “Shanghai is a city that tells its own stories. The trouble is, most people don’t know how to listen.” I nodded eagerly, as if suddenly granted access to a deeper dimension.
Her sensitivity to detail fascinated me. She could deduce a designer’s intent from the proportions of a window, or tell the lifestyle of 1930s women from a dance hall ad in an old newspaper.
She said, “Women in Shanghai back then were freer than we imagine—they wore cheongsams, went dancing, wrote columns, ran magazines. But their freedom was shaped by architecture, fashion, and social structures.”
I told her I’d recently visited Du Yuesheng’s old apartment.
“Oh?” she looked puzzled. “Wasn’t that the French Consul’s residence? How did you get in?”
“A French bank’s general manager was leaving Shanghai. The consul hosted a farewell party. I was a friend of the manager, so I tagged along.”
“That old building holds many stories,” she said with a smile.
As the exhibition ended, she said softly, “Are you free next Saturday? The breakfast at Delifrance is quite good. We could continue chatting.”
I smiled and said, “I’m free.”
In that moment, I knew I had met someone who would help me expand my view of the world.
2.
For the next few years, whenever we were both in Shanghai, we met every Saturday morning at Delifrance. The table by the window always caught the best sunlight. The glass carried a faint scent of ink, mingled with the aroma of croissants. Those were our most comfortable moments.
I had studied comparative literature, and talking with her felt like swimming in familiar waters. We discussed Dostoevsky’s gloom, Joyce’s stream of consciousness, Kafka’s inescapable labyrinths, and Heidegger’s “Dasein.” Lynn would often listen quietly, then smile and gently offer a thought—like a reminder, or a new path unfolding before me.
Gradually, our conversations shifted toward women.
When we talked about Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, she suddenly said, “In The Second Sex, Beauvoir explores female subjectivity. But did you notice? She also asks: between love and desire, can women ever truly be free?”
I paused. That was exactly the question I often struggled with.
I remember once whispering to her, “I have a weakness… Whenever I become physically intimate with my boyfriend, I unconsciously develop a sense of attachment. That entanglement makes it hard to tell whether it’s love or just desire.”
Lynn didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze held both compassion and contemplation.
She said slowly, “You know, in many cultures, women’s bodies and emotions have always been bound together. Society teaches women that physical intimacy equals a promise of love. But that’s a trap—because love shouldn’t be about dependence, but mutual fulfillment.”
She paused, then added, “In *Traces of Love*, I tried to trace the cultural memory of love. Often, what we call ‘true love’ is actually a narrative—a story shaped by society. The dance halls, the romantic novels, even Western poetry—they all teach us how to love. But real emotion isn’t found in those stories. It’s found in whether you remain yourself.”
I sat there, stunned. Her words felt like a mirror, reflecting my vulnerability with clarity.
She smiled gently and said, “Don’t be afraid of attachment. What matters is whether you can stay independent within love. Only then will you be close to the ‘true love’ you seek.”
She took a sip of coffee and looked out at the plane trees.
“Actually, your feelings echo through Shanghai’s history.”
I looked at her curiously.
“Think of the dance halls in the 1930s,” she continued. “Women in cheongsams danced under crystal chandeliers. They sought freedom but feared gossip; they enjoyed desire’s allure but longed for the security of ‘true love.’ They too wavered between dependence and independence. Society told them that physical intimacy meant commitment, but deep down, they knew that wasn’t necessarily love.”
She looked up at me, her tone gentle but firm:
“That’s what I tried to explore in Traces of Love — love isn’t just a personal experience. It’s a story woven by a city, a time, a culture. The attachment you feel doesn’t come only from within—it’s shaped by centuries of cultural inertia imposed on women.”
I was silent for a long time, feeling as if something inside me had been struck.
In that moment, I realized she wasn’t just speaking to my confusion—she was speaking to Shanghai, and to generations of women’s destinies.
As we left Delifrance that day, she gently reminded me:
“Don’t be afraid of attachment. The real test is whether you can remain yourself in love.”
Outside, the plane tree leaves drifted down. Sunlight scattered like gold across the rooftops of shikumen houses. I walked behind her, replaying her words in my mind. That table still seemed to hold her laughter and gaze.
Years later, I came to understand—what she gave me in that moment wasn’t an answer, but a posture. A way of being that could approach desire while staying clear-eyed and free.
3.
Last month, I returned to Shanghai.
The city had changed—brighter streets, faster crowds—but I still walked to that Delifrance on Fuxing Middle Road. The glass door now displayed posters of new desserts. A few high stools had been added inside. But the table by the window was still there, and the sunlight at ten in the morning was just as perfect.
I sat down and ordered a latte and a croissant. Then I ordered another coffee—her usual, a black Americano with no sugar.
The waiter looked at me, puzzled. I smiled and said, “It’s for someone else.”
When the coffee arrived, I stared at the foam pattern on the Americano, suddenly dazed.
It felt as if she might walk through the door, sit across from me, and smile gently: “What shall we talk about today?”
I said nothing. Just sat quietly, listening to the hum of the coffee machine and the traffic outside. Sunlight spread warmly across the table. I gently slid the Americano to her side of the table.
Looking at that untouched cup, I suddenly understood: she was gone. But her voice and thoughts remained.
She taught me to question, to listen, and to love bravely.
So I didn’t rush to leave. I slowly finished my latte and left her coffee there.
In that moment, I felt she was truly sitting with me again.
I wasn’t mourning her. I was waiting for her.
Waiting for her to return with her insight, her thoughtfulness, her gentle strength.
To continue our conversations about Shanghai’s stories, women’s freedom and longing, and the questions that remain unfinished.
I know she won’t walk through that door.
But I also know—she left a place in my heart.
A place I will always reserve with a cup of coffee.