Tell me you’re from Vancouver without telling me you’re from Vancouver

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Every city has its quirks — Vancouver more than most.

But what are the tell-tale signs that someone is a true Vancouverite? Is it being born on the hospital floor because they were out of beds? Eating bread from Breka Bakery and Café that was made by an overworked and underpaid university student? Or, is it being raised through snow days when there were literally only five snowflakes falling in one’s yard balcony?

“It, like, never stops raining here,” Vancouverites say. It’s true. Vancouver is a rainy city, as are most cities in the Pacific Northwest, including our southern neighbour, Seattle. I know what you’re thinking — no, Vancouver is not the jewel of the Pacific Northwest. It’s not the jewel of B.C. either (it’s Tofino, hello?), and let’s just forget about Canada as a whole (don’t even say it’s Toronto).

Despite the “it never stops raining here,” you’ll never spot anyone with an umbrella in Vancouver because that’s what our Vessi shoes and puffer vests are for, obviously.

“Aritzia warehouse sale” — three words that are capable of draining every Vancouverite’s bank account within seconds. Vancouver has four seasons — raintober, slushuary, sometimes summer, and Aritzia warehouse sale season. 

We’re currently in the Aritzia warehouse sale season, and there are only two options this time of year. Option one is to soldier through it with your Lululemon belt bag on because there’s no time to play around, and snatch that top you’ve been eyeing with the death-like grip of a 13 year old.

Option two is sitting at home because you couldn’t bother making it to the Vancouver Convention Centre in time to get your pair of overpriced slacks at a slightly discounted rate, all while listening to Olivia Rodrigo’s SOUR album on repeat. I feel for you, babe, but let’s have some hope.

“Dinner at Cactus?” Think your Vancouver-born partner is leaving you? These magic words are all you have to utter, and they will be entranced faster than by any hypnotist. Not like they could leave with these rent prices though, but always have a back-up plan.

A new study by the University of Vancouverites’ department of bullshit recently found that truffle fries and peach bellinis are the main source of survival for 83.42 per cent of “self-proclaimed” Vancouverites. Seems kind of low, if I’m being honest.

“I’m from Vancouver,” they all seem to say. Telling people you’re from Vancouver just isn’t a very Vancouver-esque thing to do. What is the most Vancouver thing you could do? Put “van” in your bio when you’ve never lived in the city. 

Like, babe, you’re from Whalley in Surrey. I’m going to need you to step back for a minute and really reconsider what you just said. If this facade continues, people in Tumbler Ridge will be claiming their Vancouver heritage soon enough. And yes, that is a real place somewhere under a constant cover of clouds, rain, and wildfire smoke in northern B.C.

Vancouver has a population of almost 700,000, but in spirit it seems all of B.C. lives here. That is excluding our friends in Whistler and on the island because they’re just so much better. 

“I’m from Vancouver, but I live in Surrey,” some have the audacity to say. Like which one is it, babe? Vancouver or Surrey, because those two could not be more different. 

Vancouver is the holier-than-thou, bitchy, yet successful, cousin at the reunion. You might think Surrey is the wannabe Vancouver, but it’s not (that’s Burnaby). Surrey — “The future lives here” — is the aunt everyone collectively hates but tolerates because what else can you really do?

You, dear reader, might be wondering, how does she know all of this? Like journalists aren’t that good at their jobs (kind of hurtful to be honest, but I respect it). 

I’ve never lived in Vancouver, and I am, in fact, that girl from Surrey. I did try to convince you that I’m from Vancouver, however, which is peak Surrey behaviour, if I do say so myself (and I do).

I have only viewed the city as an observer, but I find I’ve picked up enough to comment on the “culture” the no-fun city has built up for itself — Lulu leggings and all.