LONDON — As an inhabitual silence seeped through the window of my room opposite Hyde Park Corner, a partial tableau of one of the world’s greatest cities came into view. Between the graceful top of Wellington Arch and the red double-decker buses whooshing by, a crowd of British military officers, Commonwealth army veterans, and  curious onlookers had gathered for a wreath-laying ceremony at a monument to the Royal Regiment of Artillery that fought “for King and Country in the Great War, 1914-1919.”

On the opposite side of St. James’s Park, the mood was similarly somber but marked by more pageantry, too, because royalty was there. For the first time as monarch, King Charles placed a poppy wreath, and with barely concealed emotion gave a stern salute to the war dead at the Cenotaph. After he did so, other royals followed suit, including the Prince of Wales. His brother, the duke of Sussex, was conspicuously absent. Kate Middleton, the princess of Wales, looked ravishing in black as she observed from a balcony alongside the queen consort. 

Remembrance Day Sunday is a reminder — not that we really needed it — of how seriously Britain takes its history. It is also a force of unity. Joined near the Cenotaph were British prime ministers past and present: Boris Johnson, Tony Blair, and others. It was the current prime minister, Rishi Sunak, who laid a wreath, followed by the Labor leader, Sir Keir Starmer. If it is cliché for this correspondent to say how refreshingly civilized all this seemed, well, guilty as charged. The clamor of the next Prime Minister’s Questions will come soon enough. 

The silence I mentioned, which lasted two long city minutes, started with a gun salute fired by the King’s Troop Royal Horse Artillery, followed by Big Ben chiming 11 times at 11 a.m. It was the first time in five years that Londoners have heard Big Ben. This is due to the refurbishment work necessary to restore the Great Clock of Westminster to its present vigor. I heard the bells loud and clear as I watched the smaller but also poignant ceremony playing out across Grosvenor Place from my hotel, the Lanesborough.

It is a hotel that I did not really choose — and goodness knows there are too many great ones in London than I could mention — but rather one that chose me. That is because I stayed here with family many years ago on my first trip to London, thus sealing its spot in my traveler’s glossary as something too rare in today’s fractured world, which is to say a place of shared memory.

Are there London quarters of brasher style and slightly more pedigree? Certainly, though when it comes to history this rambling hotel is no slouch. It started out as the townhouse of James Lane, second and last Viscount Lanesborough, in 1719. Much has been added and modernized since then, and luminaries from George H.W. Bush to Cher have since sojourned here. 

However, part of what elevates a hotel to something more than simply a place to stay is how its staff make all its guests feel, not just some of them. Royal treatment will be coming to those with the means to stay in the Lanesborough’s Royal and Buckingham suites, which I had the pleasure of inspecting briefly.

Even commoners such as myself get an unambiguously warm treatment. When a concierge spotted me poring over a London map with some exasperation, he inquired as to what I was seeking. “The nearest Marks & Spencer,” I proffered, and before I knew it I was on my way to my favorite British grocery, no GPS required. 

Back later, I caught sight of a group of young revelers celebrating a meticulously orchestrated Sweet 16 party in one of the banquet rooms. The fete was  “mafia-themed,” as one hotel staffer told me, and it looked like an awful lot of fun.

So too did the Library Bar, where some of the whiskeys and cognacs available date to the 1770s, and some of the bar patrons can actually afford them. For me, though, what makes a hotel bar great is seeing as many locals as guests imbibing; this one indeed measured up. 

It almost goes without saying that location is paramount. I remember when I could have galloped from Paddington Station to Pimlico without a second thought but today I’d have to lay my own wreath to those bygone days of vim. Now staying in the city center is the sine qua non of a successful sojourn, especially for a metropolis as vast as London. Staying at the Lanesborough puts you between Mayfair, Buckingham Palace, and Belgravia on one side and Knightsbridge on the other. 

Inflation being what it is — and it is as inflated in Britain as all the recent headlines indicate — I thought it best to avoid Harrods, Harvey Nichols, and the other famously expensive department stores around Sloane Street. Even the side streets would pose too many temptations to overspend. Thus on Remembrance Day, after the ceremonies I watched in person and via the BBC, I switched into flâneur gear with compass directed to Belgravia. 

It is one one of those London place names in which a minor exultation comes simply by pronouncing it: think King’s Cross, Covent Garden, or Marylebone. Anyway, in Belgravia I wandered as a true foreigner past elegant streets lined with gleaming white townhouses, many in the Greek Revival style, several of them embassies. The charged atmosphere of the Christmas shopping season was in the air but at a remove.

On my way to Pimlico Road I paused at a calm corner of Chester Square and glanced through the iron railing at something I never expected to find growing in these urban wilds — a peony. As pink petals fluttered to the damp ground I thought of the opening pages of “The Picture of Dorian Gray” and Wilde’s inimitable depictions of  hidden London precincts alive with botanical variety. Ever in this mighty city’s thrall,  it took just one flower to remind me that I will never fully comprehend it.