A Few Hours in London, Told in 100 Photographs
What does it truly mean to return to a city after nearly forty years?
By Carlo Raciti
London is no ordinary place. Right after New York and Rome, of course, it holds a special corner of my heart as perhaps my favorite city in the world. I first set foot on its pavements when I was about fourteen. Back then, my brother Dario and I nearly drove our father mad, dragging him from one record shop to the next in a relentless hunt for vinyl. Yes, the very same vinyl records that have recently become fashionable again. I hesitate to say "back in fashion," because for those of us who grew up listening to 33s and 45s, it was never a trend. It was simply the soundtrack of our youth, a time spent letting music fill the room at full volume through proper speakers rather than headphones, with the pages of a real, paper book resting in our hands.
At the time, my generation - X - didn't know how good we had it. Personal computers did not yet exist for kids like us, and the smartphones that now command our every waking second were still nearly three decades away. Mobile phones did begin to appear in the mid-nineties, of course, but their evolution moved at a gentle pace for the first twenty years before exploding into the hyper-connected world of the last decade.
If memory serves, both of my previous visits to London took place around Easter, and both blessed us with a rare, golden week of uninterrupted sunshine. At fourteen, alongside vinyl records, calendars, and quirky trinkets unearthed in street markets, there was one ultimate prize to chase: a leather jacket just like Fonzie’s in Happy Days. Looking back, those truly were happy days, in fact, happy years.
My second visit came as a young adult, once again with Dario by my side. Our treasures remained much the same, though by then a new passion had taken root in me: photography. That love pushed me beyond the bustling markets, leading me to board trains entirely on my own to track down tucked-away camera shops far from the city center. On that trip, my brother and I stayed near Marble Arch, a strategic crossroads that put the whole city within easy reach.
Fast forward to September 2026. True to form, my wife Helen surprised me with an extraordinary announcement: she had managed to get tickets to see Stevie Wonder live at The O2 in London on November 3rd, a landmark celebration honoring fifty years of his groundbreaking masterpiece, Songs in the Key of Life.
With our Athens to London flights already booked, only one puzzle remained: where to sleep. Sadly, our hopes of stretching this lightning-fast getaway into a longer stay fell through. We needed a base that would let us conquer as much of London as possible in the handful of hours before the concert. Remembering how effortless everything felt on my last trip with Dario, I immediately suggested looking around Marble Arch.
Naturally, my suggestion was politely ignored for a full two weeks. Then, just as time was running out to book our two-night stay, Helen announced with a triumphant smile that she had found a charming little hotel right near Marble Arch. As she had just discovered, it would be the ideal launchpad for our endless walks. Women…
After an evening flight from Athens, we finally stepped into our hotel room past one in the morning. A quick shower, and sleep claimed us instantly. Just a few hours later, the alarm rang. Fueled by a croissant and a coffee grabbed at the corner, we set off on a marathon walk through the city that didn't end until five in the afternoon. Another rushed shower, a quick change of clothes, and we were sprinting for the Underground, heading to the concert on completely empty stomachs.
Packed tightly into the corner of a crowded Tube carriage, the journey felt endless until we spilled out into an equally packed O2 Arena. Snaking queues stretched everywhere, filled with hungry crowds looking for a bite before the show and the other events happening under that massive roof. We barely managed to grab a burger before joining another seemingly infinite line to enter the concert hall. The photos you will see from the show are admittedly low quality, as proper cameras weren't allowed inside. Yet the memory is crystal clear: three hours of pure magic, intermission included, spent listening to an artist we deeply adore. In two words: unforgettably wonderful.
Still buzzing from the music, Helen and I braced ourselves for one last heroic queue for the Tube ride back to the hotel. Past midnight, a sudden craving for something sweet led us to walk right past our hotel door in search of an open café where we could sit down and unwind. Alas, the spot we chose was just locking up, leaving us to savor our late-night dessert on a quiet London bench at one in the morning.
A few brief hours of sleep later, we were packing our bags and heading to Gatwick Airport for our flight back to Athens. We arrived home that evening to a late dinner of spaghetti al pesto, and, most importantly, to offer our deepest apologies to Sissy, our sixteen-year-old cat, who was waiting right at the threshold looking thoroughly unimpressed.
The hundred photographs you are about to see were captured during that fleeting handful of hours wandering the streets of our beloved London. Whenever a trip ends, we always promise ourselves we will return. Who knows when that day will come. Until then, and forever after, these frames will hold onto those few hours in London, lived to the very last drop.
