WHEN MY SON told me he was going to Beijing to study Mandarin after graduating, he also said, with a mischievous grin, ‘See? I’m a good Chinese son after all. Are you happy now?’

It was far from an admission of defeat in the battle of the generations, or a concession to relentless pressure from a pushy (Asian) parent. He was going to backpack all the way to Beijing, staying in hostels featured in the Lonely Planet, meeting young adventurers – including ‘hot chicks’ – from all around the world. And he wasn’t going to think about anything as mundane as getting a job, though knowing the language of an economic power would no doubt add to his eligibility for one.