I love New York. I love it so much that I bought the T-shirt, for US$3.99 from a guy hawking them in Times Square. I cherish it now mostly for the label—it says the shirt was made in Pakistan.

This is not the type of label Carrie Bradshaw swoons over on Sex and the City; her New York includes Manolo Blahniks, glamorous parties, and Park Avenue apartments. Would she be tickled by the irony of Pakistanis churning out I NY garments? Probably not. But she exists in a fictional world where New York is solely the riches of Manhattan.

Don’t get me wrong—I love Sex and the City as much as the next girl. And enough visitors to New York are obsessed by it to merit daily bus tours of locations that appear in the TV show and the movie. But I have precious little time for sightseeing, and I don’t want to spend it doing a drive-by of Carrie’s apartment stoop. Nor do I want to go on my own self-guided Sex tour. The show’s website helpfully maps out Manhattan, with pink hearts marking spots of interest: the store where Charlotte bought her Rabbit; the park where Miranda and Steve got married; the spa where Samantha was denied her happy ending.

But to me, the attraction of the show is the pure fantasy—it’s a window into the lives of the fabulously hip and wealthy. Instead, I want to see the New York that Sex and the City doesn’t portray. Although the city is made up of five boroughs—Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island—the show’s characters almost never venture out of Manhattan.

Yet, as even Miranda—who is eventually exiled to Brooklyn—must concede, real-estate prices make living in Manhattan only a dream for many. This is especially true for recent immigrants; New York’s fantastic ethnic diversity is concentrated in its outer boroughs, and that’s why they’re worth the trip.

Just across the East River from Manhattan’s southern tip, Brooklyn is home to 2.5 million of New York’s 8.3 million people. According to the Brooklyn Economic Development Corporation’s Web site, if Brooklyn were considered an independent city, it “would rank as the fourth largest in the United States after the rest of New York City, Los Angeles, and Chicago”.

My walking tour of Brooklyn Heights, a historic part of the borough perched high above the water, is led by Bill Buchbaum, a born-and-bred Brooklynite. The retired schoolteacher is obviously proud of his much-maligned borough, and he promises to show us “the beauty of Brooklyn”.

Indeed, Brooklyn Heights is a lovely, posh neighbourhood, and not at all what I expected. A relaxed, residential feel permeates the leafy streets, which are lined with stately 19th-century brownstones. Families and joggers enjoy the spacious waterside promenade. If this is where Miranda was forced to relocate, she’s got nothing to complain about.

Bill then leads us to DUMBO, a rapidly gentrifying area. DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) is the low to Brooklyn Heights, and has an edgier feel, but with trendy restaurants and artists’ lofts. From Empire–Fulton Ferry State Park, we watch the sun set on the water. As I gaze past the Brooklyn Bridge’s spires to the emerging lights of New York’s skyscrapers, I realize that those who leave Manhattan are rewarded with thrilling views of the iconic skyline.

As much as I enjoy the visit to Brooklyn, however, I still feel like I’ve only seen Sex and the City’s high-class version of New York. Although my Time Out New York guidebook says almost 40 percent of Brooklynites were born outside the U.S., Brooklyn Heights is predominantly white, while the multicultural neighbourhoods are scattered inconveniently throughout the borough. For an easy taster of the cultures that make up the city, I head to Queens.

Queens lies across the East River from midtown Manhattan, and it’s often cited as the most ethnically diverse area in America—almost half of its 2.3 million inhabitants were born outside the country. The No. 7 subway slices through the borough, and each stop offers a different global neighbourhood.

The minute I board the train beneath Times Square, I veer out of Carrie Bradshaw’s world again. (Her stilettos, not to mention her attitude, demand nothing less than a taxi.) It takes only 30 minutes to reach the end of the line, and most of the journey is aboveground. The glint of the Chrysler Building gives way to train yards, warehouses, and used-tire lots. Clusters of graffiti-splattered brick apartment blocks are interspersed with low brick row houses that branch off the subway line.

In Flushing, the final stop, I disembark straight into Asia. Sidewalks teem with people. Signs are in Chinese and Korean. Produce stores overflow with mangoes and gai lan. Customers line up at street stalls to buy four steamed buns for $1 or a scallion pancake for 50 cents. Hot soymilk flows.

Wandering several blocks, I pass a nondescript apartment complex. Welcome to Bland Houses, the sign proclaims. (I learn later that the housing project is named after musician James A. Bland, who was born in Flushing.) Cars honk, pedestrians jostle. LaGuardia-bound jets roar overhead every few minutes, their underbellies nearly skimming the rooftops. Nobody looks up.

I could spend days exploring, but time constraints demand that I keep moving. After scoffing down several Peking-duck pancakes from a barbecue takeout window, I board the 7 train again, this time back toward Manhattan.

Five minutes later, I gamble that the Corona Plaza station marks a totally different neighbourhood. I hop off and am not disappointed. The mood is immediately more laid-back, with men young and old loafing on park benches. Latin beats waft from buildings; store names and menus are all in Spanish.

Beneath the elevated train’s steel girders, I walk beside the traffic-clogged artery as trains occasionally rumble overhead. I pass a woman selling cut-up fruit, another offering empanadas, and a group of kids at a shaved-ice stand on the corner. At a taquerí­a, I order a couple of $2 chorizo tacos along with a Mexican soft drink.

Two stations further and I’m in Jackson Heights and India. Bypassing Kabab King, I duck into Patel Brothers, where South Asians are stocking up on chickpea flour and two-pound bags of cinnamon sticks. The supermarket has an entire aisle marked Beans.

Walking near the train line toward Woodside station, I encounter a fascinating cultural mix of storefronts: Dentistas Hispanos, Tenzin Salon, Han Ah Reum Beauty Salon, Himalayan Yak Restaurant, Popular Driving School. Signs advertise halal meat, airfares to Peru, shipping to the Philippines, Japanese hair straightening, and English conversation lessons. In addition to free evenings and weekends, a cellphone poster promises: “No social [insurance number] No credit No problem.” At SriPraPhai Thai Restaurant, I practically weep with joy over the only authentic papaya salad I’ve found outside of Thailand.

I haven’t even scratched the surface of the world that is Queens when I have to return to Manhattan. When I emerge from the subway into Times Square, Sex and the City’s New York greets me. Its pulsating energy defines the city’s glamour for visitors (although many locals shun its touristy excesses, as the show’s foursome probably do).

Back in Vancouver, I’m not surprised when my I NY shirt begins to disintegrate after a few washes. The peeling red heart now appears broken, but I don’t mind. Although Sex and the City celebrates New York’s sparkle, my T-shirt reminds me that the city’s grittier reality is equally fabulous.

Access: For information on visiting Queens and Brooklyn, see www.nycvisit.com/ . Free Brooklyn tours are available to guests of Hostelling International New York; see www.hinewyork.org/ . SriPraPhai Thai Restaurant is at 64–13 39th Avenue, Woodside (718-899-9599). Information on Sex and the City bus tours can be found at www.screentours.com/. To map out the show’s locations, click on Guide to NY at www.hbo.com/city/ .