Racy.

Neon and on and on.

Kowloon, Hong Kong — It’s a sprint to the finish. And we took a wrong turn.

We’ve spent the evening at the Temple Street Night Market in Kowloon, and the last ferry to Hong Kong Island leaves at 11:45 p.m.

Time spent sifting through cheap knockoffs and knicknacks that cut out the middle man has left us running to the pier. We left behind the dai pai dong with grilled meats and delicious looking spiced crab as shutters began falling sharply over storefronts like steel blankets.

Prostitutes don’t bat an over-lacquered eyelash. Even the purveyors of pastel cat-printed t-shirts, hand-held fans and Cucci purses barely raise a wrist in limp protest at our rushed departure.

This side of town is a far cry from the opulence of Canton Street — where a Lamborghini passes a pair of Bentleys — underlining the region’s vast wealth disparity.

Only a few blocks separate them, but their worlds could not be farther apart.

With the clock barking in our ears like a drill sergeant, the blocks feel even longer. We make it just in time.

Naturally, I try to pay with my room key.

It has been a long day.