The Return Of The King

(Budapest, Hungary)

The quest to find an appropriate fate for my wedding ring is now satisfyingly complete. I have made previous mention of this unexpected stowaway amongst the belongings I had brought with me on my travels, and the time has come to relate the final chapter.

In my first iteration of this post, at this point, I embarked on a major expository digression covering my feelings about rituals, symbols, marriage and commitment (and heaven knows where else I might have gone) with the aim to honour my storyteller instincts and fulfil my intention to tell the story properly and feed my insatiable penchant for gravitas (those who know me well know I got a fever and the only prescription is more gravitas) in bringing the tale to its ultimate close. But I soon realised the studio would never put it in theatres at such an attention span challenging length, so those deleted scenes will have to wait for the Extended Director's Cut.



Wednesday, 17 September 2008. It was the morning of my last day in Budapest. My flight to Paris was in the afternoon and I had left all preparations for departure until the eleventh hour. But there was something I needed to do first.

I rose as early as I dared, dressed as warmly as I could given I had the resources of a backpacker traveling during the summer, went to the drawer of the bedside table where I had been keeping my sentimental artifacts and put my wedding ring in my pocket. I walked out of my apartment building and headed straight for the Lánchíd (Chain Bridge), one of the world's most famous and historic bridges, one that carries powerful symbolism of its own, spanning the equally famous and symbolic Danube, and an unmistakable icon of Budapest.



For the preceding two months the weather had been almost without exception obscenely gorgeous; sunny, warm, delicious, energising. On this morning, the sky was grey and exhausted and the air was startlingly cold. I smiled to myself as my eyes watered in the biting wind, wondering whether this was poetically appropriate to the occasion and deciding that might be going a little too far even for me. The walk was considerably further than I anticipated.

On its own, the entire subject of what one might do with one's wedding ring after one's marriage has ended is in my opinion fascinating and worthy of discussion. As I walked, I reflected on the options I had considered and rejected. This is not actually true, at all; I was probably consumed with the burning in my frozen toes, the building sensation that I needed to pee, and making mental notes of potential breakfast venues for the return trip; but narratively speaking it works a little better.

The first possibility to arrive was simply keeping the ring and adding it to my permanent collection of sentimental objects. This led to the inevitable fantasies about what the archetypal next partner should make of such a thing, despite knowing realistically she either wouldn't give a shit or would simply lump it in with the rest of the quirky and ultimately more serious baggage she would need to graciously accept. But you never know; after all, bitches be crazy an' shit.

Another early consideration was to melt it down to make some other thing. This idea not only carries the same probably even greater next partner concerns, but is to be blunt pretty lame, especially for a simple gold wedding band. I fail to think of a single compelling reincarnation to justify such an undertaking, let alone one for which it would provide sufficient raw material. A cufflink? Objet d'art? It doesn't even hold up as mediocre sentimental deconstructionist poetry and most likely could only ever be one of those things that ends up in the too hard basket at the dead letter office disguised as the I'll get to it someday really I will drawer.

In the end, the only sensible solution that would extricate the ring from my life going forward and suitably demonstrate closure and my detachment from the symbol would be to sell it. I did not get around to this task before my departure from Sydney, and during the early half of my journey I didn't feel confident I could locate an adequately reputable merchant, so I pushed it off the list of urgent priorities. As time passed and I stumbled across it every now and again, it gradually dawned on me that no matter what kind of kryptonite chamber we put the rings into to drain them of their meaning, no matter how successfully we felt we had transferred whatever it was that was significant and healthy to move into our hearts and memories, these rings would always be our wedding rings. And selling my ring, aside from at best fetching enough cash to fund a day or two of my trip, just didn't feel right. I briefly considered at least getting a quote before making my final decision, but I am pleased to say I never did, pleased because it aligns with one of the most important commitments I made to myself relating to the dissolution of my marriage, to never alter my behaviour or compromise my integrity, sense of fairness, or convictions about the right course of action based on money. I never sold out.

And so it was that toward the end of my residency in Hungary that I finally knew what I wanted to do.



As I walked out to the middle of the bridge, one by one the anxieties that had been testing my resolve fell away. The bridge was not closed to pedestrians that day (the city was riddled with construction, I had seen other bridges closed to pedestrians, and I knew I was giving myself only once chance to get onto the bridge). The barriers were indeed about waist high as I recollected (no potential obstructions, no risk of a comical ricochet followed by an unceremonious flop over the edge or a bounce into traffic or a return to my feet equalling a depressing and impotent no net effect). No officials were on guard to potentially disturb me (to suspect me of plotting of my own demise or arrest and fine me afterward for egregious disregard for ordinances and the safety of would-be rivergoers below, of which there were also thankfully none). The bridge was deserted in fact, I was alone.

In the sleepy morning hush of near silence, I took the ring from my pocket, looked at it one last time, said softly "Goodbye" and cast it into the river. In one clean simple motion, I watched it fall into the water and disappear in the rushing current with a humble splash.

I came to Budapest because I love Hungarian culture, history, language, food, people. I spent enough time there to form my own personal connections to the city, to write my own story, but I make no mistake, I was introduced to it all by my ex-wife, a first generation Australian born to (very) Hungarian immigrants. And so it is appropriate and satisfying to me that the final resting place for my wedding ring be somewhere at the bottom of the Danube, beneath the iconic Lánchíd. I will always know where it is, it will always be somewhere, but at last it is no longer with me.