“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised with the cultural diversity in Vancouver,” my friends advised me before I left for my trip. I am currently making my way through the late Iris Chang’s The Chinese in America; Chang’s writing frequently demonstrates her disdain for The White People. Although I am aware of the Whiteness of Seattle, as a result of reading this book, I have become even more aware—perhaps even sensitive?—to the ethnic homogeneity of this city.

Along Robson Street trotted gaggles of Asian women, Guess? and BCBG bags dangling from the crooks of their slender elbows, their large metal hoop earrings swinging in time with their black locks, and dainty ballet flats gracing their feet. Prides of Asian men, interspersing the word “f@#$ing” liberally in their sentences, strutted along the sidewalks, the toes of their white Adidas sneakers and black leather loafers poking out from under their Levi’s jeans. Two gigantic replicas of a Pocky box are attached to a store front. I spotted at least two “bubble tea” stores off of the main drag.

At the Vancouver Aquarium, a Chinese boy, no older than four years of age, looked with awe at a gigantic fish that was larger than the size of his head. His mother grasped his hand and gently pulled him towards the door. In that sing-songy voice of young children, the boy inquired in Mandarin, “Mom, do you think that fish tastes as good as the fish we ate last night?”

I couldn’t tell if the people in Stanley Park were primarily tourists or Vancouver residents, though everyone agreed that it was a glorious day to be outside. Fluffy, light grey clouds blossomed in the distance in a field of light blue; the mountains north of Vancouver were iced with snow and sprinkled liberally with evergreen trees. Large, cargo ships milled about the dark blue-green sea.

A couple, their language thick with an Eastern European accent, asked if we would take a picture of them. She hopped onto his back.

“We want a goofy picture,” she explained. When they smiled, one head directly above the other, they revealed their teeth—off-white, mildly crooked, genuine.

While meandering along the sea wall (at least what portions were open), small collections of people strolled past us in the opposite direction, their voices speaking in tongues that we could not recognize. Young children clung to the pant legs of their parents; young couples held hands—sometimes only by one hooked finger—and shared whispers; elderly people shuffled along the path, their large sunglasses hiding the wrinkles around their eyes; runners and joggers panted past, their shoes dirty and faces sweaty; babies rolled past in prams of all shapes, sizes, and technologies, the inhabitants within invariably asleep from the warm afternoon sun; cyclists zipped past with their 21-speed road bikes, their pink and blue Lycra outfits gleaming as brightly as the spokes of the bike wheels; middle-aged people wearing old jackets and loose pants lost in their thoughts, their heads turned towards the water, but not looking at it….

Though more diverse than Seattle, Vancouver had a dearth of skins featuring darker colors.