By the time we go to the Peace Arch, all of us already are aware of our impending departure. This trip to Vancouver has run its course: our bodies are tired, and there is relief in the idea of finally going home. Still, the sadness hovers. It’s always present, though not quite landing yet, like a sensation that hasn’t fully reached your brain.
Five of us—I, Yanyan, my parents, and Ate Lita—will be going home in a couple of days. Joseph, on the other hand, will be the one staying behind. Earlier, he joked (or did he?) that we should just rebook and spend Christmas and New Year here, or that maybe he should just come with us to the Philippines. I chuckled, because it’s easier than acknowledging what comes next.
So it feels fitting that one of our final outings together will take us to a border.
The day begins like any other day of sightseeing. We drive out of Vancouver toward Surrey, making a detour along the way to the pet store where Joseph works part-time. He isn’t on call that day, which allows him to go with us. We take the opportunity to buy a few treats for our Chihuahuas and cats waiting for us back home. It’s an ordinarily leisurely day, belying what it’s about to become.
Yanyan is driving, occasionally checking Waze to make sure we are still on course. As we near the Peace Arch, the road begins to narrow and straighten, and the surroundings becoming more functional than scenic. When the app tells her to turn left, she does—but a little too early. She says she saw barbed wire near the actual turn Waze was pointing to and assumed the road was closed, or that officers were already patrolling the area. So she turned before it, thinking this is the parking lot.
Instead, we find ourselves at a duty-free store.
At this point, there’s no looping back. The entrance we had just passed is now guarded by tire spikes. Yanyan tries to find another exit, but there’s only one way forward. That road leads directly to the highway and straight into U.S. border control. There’s no U-turn.
Only then do the implications begin to register. We haven’t brought our passports. Yanyan, who usually keeps them, have left them behind at our place, assuming we wouldn’t need them since we have no plans of leaving Canada.
We aren’t exactly panicking… on the outside. But we feel defensive, joking amongst ourselves just enough to keep the nervousness from settling too deeply. By the time we reach the checkpoint, it’s clear that the Peace Arch’s idea of openness ends right where the barriers begin.
We are led inside U.S. border control—a large lobby with high ceilings and a long glass window facing outward. If not for the uniformed officers behind desks, it could pass for the entrance hall of a museum. Outside are rocks, grass, and an American flag flapping in the Pacific Northwest breeze. There is technically a view, but nothing interesting to look at.
A few people are at the desks while others are in line, documents and folders in hand. I’m assuming at least some of them also took a wrong turn and ended up here. Because standing for long periods is difficult for my parents, the officers allow them to sit on a bench beside the window while Ate Lita stays with them. Joseph, Yanyan, and I line up to explain what happened: a wrong turn, no intention of entering the United States, and no passports because we never planned to leave Canada that day.
Only then do the stakes settle in. Not having passports is one thing; Ate Lita not having a U.S. visa is another. Joseph’s situation feels the most precarious. He is on maintained status, meaning he’s allowed to stay and work in Canada, but only as long as he doesn’t leave. Even an accidental crossing could have consequences that would have repercussions beyond that afternoon.
For now, all we can do is wait. Long periods of stillness are interrupted by brief questions and phone calls. One officer tells us this kind of mistake happens often. Another, originally from Valenzuela, our own home city, ends up translating for Ate Lita and jokes that the confusing signage is “Canada’s problem.” The joking helps, or at least keeps the anxiety from fully settling. Joseph jokes that if he can’t go back to Canada, at least he’ll have a reason to go home with us.
Eventually, we are asked to sign a few forms. The officers remain professional throughout, sometimes even friendly. One of them jokes with Yanyan, a dual citizen, that she is welcome to stay anytime and could even leave the rest of us behind. It’s clearly said in jest, but it underscores how unevenly borders apply, depending on one’s passport.
By the time we are allowed to leave, it is already mid-afternoon. We are given directions back to the Peace Arch parking lot, if we still want to go. Outside, the monument to peace and openness waits just a short drive away.
Upon reaching the park in the waning afternoon light, I say aloud, “Finally, we’re back in Canada!” I even try a theatrical gesture of kissing the ground, but my winter layers make that impossible. Joseph and I walk ahead while Yanyan and Ate Lita help Mom. We are too tired to deal with the wheelchair on the damp path, and Dad, exhausted and maybe a bit traumatized, stays in the car.
As we approach the Peace Arch, the solemnity of the structure stands in stark contrast to our day. Inscribed on the monument are words about openness and peace—“May these gates never be closed”. The irony isn’t lost on me, after spending the afternoon constrained by procedures.
The Peace Arch itself is a monumental structure straddling the border between the United States and Canada, between Blaine, Washington, and Surrey, British Columbia. Completed in 1921, it was built to commemorate the lasting peace between the two countries, which had not gone to war since the Treaty of Ghent in 1814. Standing 67 feet tall, the arch is made of white concrete in a neoclassical style, topped with the inscriptions “Children of a common mother” and “Brethren dwelling together in unity”, emphasizing the shared history and friendship between the neighboring nations.
The Arch sits at the center of Peace Arch State Park in Washington and Peace Arch Provincial Park in British Columbia, surrounded by open, green spaces where visitors can walk, picnic, and view the monument from either side of the border. Its position directly on an international boundary allows people to cross under it, legally or symbolically, though formal border checks stand nearby. Over the years, it has become a cultural landmark, a site for ceremonies, celebrations, and tourist visits.
We take photos, and we wander a little, looking at the surroundings. We capture Ate Lita stepping across the invisible line, claiming she’s in “America.” It’s a surreal reminder of arbitrary divisions. Ultimately, the scene underscores the transience of our reunion; standing with Joseph, we acknowledge with heavy hearts that our Canadian journey is drawing to a close.
When we finally leave the Peace Arch, there is a palpable sense of relief. I ask Joseph if the tension from the border mishap has replaced the sadness he feels about our impending departure. He shrugs, half-joking that for now it has, but that sadness will probably return tomorrow. At that moment, we aren’t anticipating going home yet; it still feels like the trip hasn’t quite ended. As we drive toward a dinner with my mother’s acquaintances, though, the lingering sense of closure hovers over us. We are in the tail end of a long journey, and the border incident has left me thinking about time passing, family connections, and how borders shape the ways we relate to one another.
This trip changed how I view my family. Where I once felt frustrated at Joseph for leaving Yanyan and me with the responsibilities of running the school, I now understand his perspective and feel closer to him. That empathy deepened my bond with him, and with all of us together in these final days, it’s clear how fleeting yet precious these shared moments are.
When this trip finally comes to its end, it isn’t just a return to normal life. It will be a constant reminder of the ways travel reshapes perspective, of how journeys intertwine with relationships, and of how memories stay with us long after passports are back in drawers. Even as we settle into routine again, I know each one of us will carry this trip with us, emotionally and mentally, forever.
Peace Arch Provincial Park Travel Basics
Access
- The Peace Arch straddles the Canada–U.S. border between Surrey, British Columbia, and Blaine, Washington. From Vancouver, it’s about a 45–50 minute drive via Highway 99 and 176th Street. If you’re using Google Maps, Waze, or GPS, follow the signs carefully. Incorrect turns can lead to the U.S. border lanes, as we learned the hard way.
- There is parking on both the Canadian and U.S. sides. From the Canadian parking lot, the arch is still a short walk away, so allow 10–15 minutes to reach it. Some paths are narrow or slightly damp, so if you’re bringing a wheelchair or have mobility concerns, note that concrete paths exist but may not always be obvious.
Admission
- Most visitors explore the park’s Canadian side (Peace Arch Provincial Park), which is free to enter (park gates are open from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.) and doesn’t require passports.
- However, even if passports aren’t required, make sure to bring them. Since the arch itself sits on the U.S. border, crossing officially into the U.S. requires proper documentation. Make sure to bring proper identification as even a short, unintentional crossing can create complications, as it did for us.
For more practical information, visit the Peace Arch Park’s official website.
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