Apartment hunting, and escaping, in Hong Kong.

I look over at Serena, I catch her eye, and can barely contain a smile. She's also smiling with her eyes. I manage to control myself, and cast my eyes down to the floor, and replace the smile with a withdrawn expression.

"What are you going to do?!" The middle age women states, more than asks, in her sharp English.

It feels like we're two rambunctious 12 year olds who are being scolded by our school principal.

She continues...

"You won't be able to find anything like this for this price. Are you going to go back to Canada?"

"I don't know" I respond in the most pathetic voice I can muster, while I'm still struggling to suppress a smile. I feel bad about lying, but at the same time can't help but find humour in the situation.

It all started a week ago, when we first came to Hong Kong following an amazing, but exhausting, 6 week trip through mainland China. Apartment hunting can be stressful anywhere, but more so in Hong Kong's unbelievably inflated housing market, it becomes nearly unbearable when coupled with the intense 45+ degree July heat.

We wanted to find an apartment as soon as possible; desperate to leave our cramped hostel room, equipped with a 1 square meter washroom, and a bed that takes up 80% of the floorspace.

We found a place that was okay, decent price (for Hong Kong), a little older, a bit dirty, and kind of out of the way of the main transit lines, but maybe because it was 4 times the size of our current room, we were able to rationalize putting a deposit on it.

After sleeping on it, we began having second thoughts. It doesn't have a washing machine, it's going to tack on an additional 30 minutes to our morning commute, and the building is kind of sketchy (Serena isn't convinced that my idea of keeping a baseball bat bedside will provide adequate security).

But it does have a harbour view! Kind of, if you look out at a certain angle through one window.

The real estate agent phoned to inform us that the landlord wished to meet before authorizing the rent that we agreed upon.

This gives birth to our diabolical plan.

We realized that we both regretted putting down the deposit. The one problem is we don't want to walk away from the money, and we are unsure if we could get it back just by asking (In hindsight we likely could've).

So we decide to adopt the facade of a young couple unsure of their finances, who expected their parents to support their living expenses, but we're recently informed that would not be the case. The theory is that if they are not confident we can pay the rent, they will not rent to us, and therefore refund our deposit.

Now we are looking down at the floor in the real estate office, trying to avoid eye contact out of fear that laughing will ruin the act.

I briefly feel shame about carrying out the plan, but maybe it's the same july heat that caused us to accept a dingy apartment so quickly, that allows me to push any doubt to the back of my mind.

Suddenly, the abrasive real estate agent stops talking. She looks up at us with tired eyes, and reaches for the contract that we signed yesterday. She looks directly at me, I see the anger on having lost a sale, but also compassion for the poor young couple sitting in front of her. She tears up the contract, and hands me the envelope of cash that we had delivered the other day.

A wave of relief wells inside, but a twinge of pain is also present. Knowing that we successfully duped the woman into giving us our deposit back, I can't help but feel shame for having found, and played, with the human side of this seemingly money obsessed real estate agent.

The other discovery I have as we walk away from the office, envelope in hand, is my hidden talent for lying. Sure we almost blew it a few times, but in the end it worked perfectly.

I'm disconcerted by the fact I was able to take on a different persona so easily, but as we continue down the street, and the summer heat turns my brain to jello, these thoughts fade as my only concern becomes finding a cool place.

The Bowen Road 5K

"Should I pee one more time?" I think to myself. "No, no, I'll be okay. I just went.

I'm packed together with hundreds of other runners, most of whom are wearing spandex and running shorts, and look much more professional than me, in my basketball shorts and baggy surf T-shirt.

I signed up for the 5k race a few weeks ago, thinking it would encourage me to exercise regularly in preparation. Now that I am at the starting line, the spirit of competition has taken hold, along with nervousness and doubt.

When I woke up this morning, at 6 am, and looked out at the torrential downpour, I figured the race will be cancelled.

"There's no way we can run in this!" I thought to myself "I mean at the very least it isn't safe".

I hurriedly turned on my computer to check for weather arrangements. Found it!

"Race will be cancelled in the case of a black rainfall warning, or class 8 typhoon"

Unsure of what exactly a black rainfall looks like, I check the official Hong Kong government weather page for today's warnings.

My heart sinks as I read "Amber rainstorm warning in effect".

"Who decides on this, totally arbitrary, stupid, colour system!" I say to no one in particular. "No one can go out in this, let alone run a race, it's 5k, it's fast, someone could get hurt!".

I phone the race organizers, who only advise to "Bring your rain gear" as the race is indeed still on.

"Rain gear!?" I think to myself "What, rain gear?"

I have an umbrella, but I hardly think it is going to help my race time. I'm now resigned to two choices, either suck it up and go, or crawl into my warm bed and sleep for another couple hours before work. I'm seriously leaning towards the latter.

At this point Serena has shown signs of movement on the bed, likely due to my incessant cursing from the other side of the room.

"You should go, if it's still on. Comon! you've been talking about this for weeks" She said, her voice dreamlike.

Following another 30 minutes of self-deliberation, and complaining about the race conditions, I head out in the rain.

Now I'm shuffling backwards, like a penguin with three hundred, or so, other anxious runners, overlooking downtown Hong Kong. The Bowen road 5k has some breathtaking views, though you are hardly able to enjoy them during the race.

"Please move back from the start line!" A voice booms from a megaphone.

Fortunately for us, the rain stopped about 15 minutes ago, and now the only thing on my mind is whether I should have gone to the bathroom once more.

I don't hear the starting signal, but suddenly the mob moves slowly forward. I find myself doing an awkward high stepping run, which is slower than my walking pace, but I am afraid to step on anyone's heels.

My stereotypical Canadian politeness, is causing me to drift toward the rear of the pack. However, as the group begins to thin, I pick up pace, like a large boulder nearing the edge of a cliff, I take off.

I transform, I am an antelope bounding across the Serengeti. No! scratch that. I am a cheetah and the other runners are antelope, and I begin to count how many I can catch.

1...2,3,4...5,6...7,8,9...

Suddenly, one particular limber animal bounds past in the opposite direction. I am about to turn and give chase, when I am shook from my trance.

"Wait, no. This isn't the turn around spot, the race has just started!" I think to myself "There's no way...".

Suddenly another runner hops by. I now begin to count those going in the opposite direction.

1,2,3,4,5,6,...

There are too many to count.

Doubt creeps into my mind.

"What if I need to stop and take a rest? Maybe I didn't train enough, I don't want to be sick for work later, maybe this was a mistake"

I put my head down and think of nothing.

"Just breath" I say to myself, "Just breath".

I reach the halfway point, and head back to the start/finish line. I am feeling good, I've managed to find the void in my mind, and am resting while my body carries me forward.
Suddenly, I am shook from this comfortable state, and I begin to feel something stirring within.

"It's okay." I say to myself "10 more minutes and you can use a toilet, just tough it out".

While I was so obsessed with doing number 1 before the race, my ignorance of number 2, may cost me. I grit my teeth, and keep moving forward. Unfortunately, this has also dropped my pace, as my mind becomes aware of the pain.

I am now moving like a wounded zebra, and it takes everything I have to keep from walking. Lions are now passing me, as I move awkwardly ahead on a broken leg.

I reach the final stretch where event organizers are yelling encouragement. I am able to pick up the pace slightly, and as I am about to be passed by a group that I had preyed on earlier, I switch to an awkward three legged sprint, and as a wounded zebra, labour across the finish line, mouth wide open, gasping for air.

This was by far the longest 21 minutes of my life; I now have a deeper understanding of the physical and mental struggles of competitive running, and I am humbled.

I limp forward, unsure of my surroundings, following my late surge. I see a public restroom and half walk, half jog, towards it.

Relief!