I was born and grew up in the Baltic marshland by zinc-gray breakers that always marched on in twos. Hence all rhymes, hence that wan flat voice that ripples between them like hair still moist, if it ripples at all. Propped on a pallid elbow, the helix picks out of them no sea rumble but a clap of canvas, of shutters, of hands, a kettle on the burner, boiling - lastly, the seagull's metal cry. What keeps hearts from falseness in this flat region is that there is nowhere to hide and plenty of room for vision. Only sounds needs echo and dreads its lack. A glance is accustomed to no glance back. Joseph Brodsky
Brodsky constantly recollected Petersburg in the poems, to me each time as I happen in Petersburg Brodsky is recollected.
The next trip has been connected with business trip in a city Pushkin, the former Imperial village, but it is possible to tell that the trip was to Petersburg.
Petersburg as always is beautiful – varies nothing, majestic palaces and the Peter and Paul Fortress.
Channels chained in a granite.
Crowds of people in any weather aspiring to get to museums and palaces, without looking at all at a rain and huge turns.
But having got inside – you are surprised luxury.
Tremendous parks of Petersburg.
And people, such different interesting people.