Like a vast production of Sleeping Beauty, St Petersburg is waking up and it is Prince Tourism who bestows the kiss so go now, advises Carla

[. . .]All the same, St Petersburg in July is disorienting. All one’s images of the city are of snow and ice, tall boots and fur coats. Only when you leave the grand boulevards, do you find some of the wintry melancholy that has fertilised your imagination through thousands of pages of Russian literature.

One such place is the town house where Vladimir Nabokov was born, now a modest museum [. . .]

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