“You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? Then who the hell else are you talking… you talking to me? Well I’m the only one here. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Oh yeah? OK.” – Travis Bickle
Every inch of wall, floor and ceiling space of Helga’s Folly is covered in paintings, frescoes, murals, photographs, mirrors, sculptures, giant candles and antiques and resonates with the spent souls of past bohemian visitors, including Gandhi and Paula Yates, though not at the same time. There’s an evident obsession with death and whimsy visible in the décor, and the 20th century in all its terrible beauty, as perceived by the old moneyed classes, dominates the off-kilter ambience. A definite highlight is an encounter with proprietress Helga De Silva, who makes an appearance every now and then, dressed to the nines like Count Dracula.
If you are looking for conventional accommodation, don’t stay here.