We’re back in London before our Wednesday flight home, staying in the Victoria Station neighborhood. It was where I arrived as a wide-eyed 20-year-old, fresh off the channel ferry, and where I met Mom on another trip a few years later.

Mom and I had flown different airlines to London and had decided to meet at Victoria. Not just anyplace in the cavernous station but under the clock. Dad had suggested it. He met his dates there when he visited the city from his air base in East Anglia.

Now the clock is perfectly positioned above the ladies’ loo. Not the most dignified spot for the old clock. But time marches on, something I’m acutely aware of visiting this bustling city, which has grown tremendously since I last visited in 2003.

But the old places have a gravitational pull. Which is why I feel at home in the shadow of Victoria Station. Not exactly under the clock — but close to it.