Until three weeks ago the number 10732 meant very little to me.
Nothing. Nada.
It still means very little, except I now know it's the distance in kilometres between Hastings and China. That's basically a long way. (Amazing what you can calculate on Google these days).
Mind you, it's not as long as the distance between Earth and the moon, which is about 384,400km. That's basically a longer way.
Still, 10732 is far enough for me, for now. Baby steps.
My boss and Air New Zealand have been kind enough to send me on an all-expenses-paid writing gig to China.
The kids have no idea how far away I'll be when I arrive in Shanghai in two weeks. My eldest daughter, aged 7, asked if she could come with me - in our Honda Odyssey.
I told her that if driving the 421km from Hastings to Auckland took six hours, then it would take 152 hours to drive to Shanghai and it wasn't recommended.
She was still keen, bless her little heart. No more Chitty Chitty Bang Bang for that young one.
But neither am I as worldly as Dick Van Dyke. In fact I've left these shores only twice.
Once I spent two weeks honeymooning on Oz's Gold Coast, and then years later we (yes, the same wife) flew to Fiji, where we spent our holiday slurping kava from wooden bowls, sucking pina coladas through straws and snorkelling at the reef. (Fiji coral is razor sharp, so trust me on this one: Don't perform the first two activities before the last).
Anyway, so China's a foreign concept in every respect - foreign language, time zone, foreign in everything but food. I've dined at Heretaunga St's Kippers Takeaways at least once a week for the past five years.
Since learning of my travel assignment, I've been trying to convince Kippers' owner to teach me a new phrase every week.
He's an affable chap. When he doesn't know the answer to my question he runs to the back of the shop to fetch a Chinese-English dictionary - even when there's a line of customers behind me he patiently thumbs through the pages.
Mind you, I'm not interested in learning anything but the basics. The idea of being a foreigner is one of the beauties of travel. I don't want to feel at home. Travel is, at least to me, meant to be a struggle.
To be frank, China wouldn't have been my destination of choice. Paradoxically that's why I'm looking forward to it. There's no pressure to swap a few phrases or get in touch with long-lost relatives. Plus I'd rather walk the wall than scale a tower, alp or castle.
Either way, I'm certainly in no position to complain.
The itinerary is both exhilarating and exhausting. Among other activities we'll be walking the wall, visiting the Forbidden City, travelling 300km/h on an express train and eating weird things.
"Live seafood of every description", I've been told. For this foody (someone who constantly stuffs his cavernous gob) that's less a warning and more a red rag to a bull.
In fact my "itinerary" is more a menu.
We've also been told to prepare for Shanghai's "night life". Kind of ironic, given I've yet to experience Hawke's Bay's nightlife. Such are my domestic obligations and diminishing inclination to party after 10pm. I guess not only will I be visiting a new place - I'll be re-visiting my youth.
Speaking of revisiting youth, I had to unearth my old passport for renewal a few weeks back.
Apart from costing me $150, the scariest cost of preparing for China has been coming face to face with my 24-year-old former self.
Passport photos are the great leveller. There's no airbrushing, no choice of shot, no second chances. This is how everyone sees you. You're ugly. Live with it.
If nothing else, it's honest photography. In my case it's been the spark of much nostalgia. The disparity between my 24-year-old face and the one that now adorns my new passport is nothing short of jaw-dropping.
The dark brown hair now grey, the facial flesh - and loads more of it - fallen victim to gravity. An exuberant smile replaced by a wizened sneer.
I've succumbed to what a writer far greater than I once called the unforgiving minute. And unforgiving the minutes have been.
Yet in all seriousness. I have to say I like the older chap better. All nostalgia, after all, is denial. I've found the curmudgeonly old bugger strangely comforting.
So much so, in fact, that when this passport expires in 15 years, I'll be champing at the bit to compare the before-and-after shots.
I look forward to 55-year-old Mr Story's future conversation with myself.
Mark Story is assistant editor at Hawke's Bay Today.
It ran across suburban streets and the runway – then authorities intervened.