I am still jet-lagged as we stand around a telephone booth on Andrássy street,
Grant, my sister, and me.
We have just come from visiting the home-turned-shrine of composer Zoltán Kodály;
My sister and I once attended a school named after him.
The telephone booth stands in front of a museum of artifacts from the Far East,
Collected by some Hungarian explorer-anthropologist—
Like Bilbo Baggins bringing dragon treasure to the Shire.
This Hungarian and the hobbit were geocaching before geocaching was a thing.
A set of coordinates on Grant’s phone have led us from Kodály’s house to here:
A chipped-paint green and yellow telephone booth with plywood interiors—an artifact, a relic.
We do everything we can except take the booth apart.
No cache—nor cash—is found.
I pace and look around, from the stone Chinese dragons on the museum lawn,
To the pedestrians giving us funny looks:
Three American youths scouring a telephone booth in front of the Far East museum on Andrássy street,
A few blocks away from where Kodály’s personal affects reside,
Searching for a geocache that is no longer there.
We console ourselves with a trip to Burger King.