Le Ballu

Syldavia has never issued a passport. Hergé invented the Balkan kingdom for Tintin, complete with castles, uniforms and plots against the throne. Yet at 30 rue Ballu, in Paris's ninth arrondissement, it has something rather like an unofficial embassy. There is no flag, just a red-brick townhouse beside a more conventional stone one, and an entrance that leads almost directly to a bar. The diplomatic formalities, such as checking in, are handled without much ceremony.

The address has a history of imaginary geography. In 1898, Alfred Jarry's *Ubu roi* was performed with marionettes at the Théâtre des Pantins, at number 6 on the same street. Jarry had placed his outrageous play in Poland, which he described as nowhere. Its actual stage premiere had been two years earlier, but the puppets came here. A century later, it seems appropriate that a fictional country should find another address along rue Ballu.

Julia Vidalenc and her architect husband Thomas opened the hotel in 2019, bringing together two houses with very different façades. They had no interest in reconstructing an actual Balkan palace. Thomas liked the clear outlines of old comic strips and the furniture of Eastern Europe in the 1960s. He mixed both into a fantasy with bottle-green walls, mirrors, leather banquettes and lamps that look faintly astronomical. The paintings, by Polish artist Tauba Sarnaka, are real finds rather than reproductions assembled to fit a theme. The effect is more eccentric private house than costume shop, particularly because nobody insists that you understand the references.

The restaurant helps. You enter near the bar, with its illuminated marble counter, then move towards a room with red-marble tables and a leafy courtyard that can be enclosed when the weather changes. Lunch can run into a drink and dinner without your having to find a new address. The cooking is French, seasonal and relaxed, not a theatrical menu of invented Syldavian specialties. People from the neighbourhood come in, which gives the ground floor an agreeable life beyond the guests sleeping upstairs.

Those guests have an unusually practical secret. Every room category includes a little kitchenette, with a microwave, fridge, crockery and coffee maker. It is not an invitation to prepare a banquet, but very useful if you have bought something good from a Paris food shop or simply want breakfast in your dressing gown. The Standard is eighteen square metres and looks onto the street; the Superior adds two metres and may face the garden instead. A twenty-five-square-metre Deluxe is easier for two people with luggage. The twenty-nine-square-metre Junior Suite has a bathtub and garden outlook, while the forty-seven-square-metre Apartment separates bedroom and sitting room. Some Junior Suites and Apartments have terraces, but book those categories explicitly. The clever decoration doesn't make a small room larger.

There is another unexpected luxury underground: an eight-by-two-metre heated pool with a sauna, which residents can reserve privately for forty-five minutes. You won't train for a triathlon, but having the water and the room to yourselves is more appealing than sharing a crowded spa. Reserve your slot rather than assuming it will be empty when you feel like swimming.

Rue Ballu is comparatively calm, while the bars and restaurants of Pigalle and the métro at Place de Clichy are close by. Montmartre is a walk uphill; the Louvre and the great monuments require more planning. This is now a five-star hotel, and eighteen square metres can feel a little mean at five-star prices, even with all that personality. If your idea of luxury involves vast bedrooms or a grand entrance, the imaginary kingdom will not persuade you otherwise.

But Le Ballu makes a delightful argument for a different sort of luxury. It offers a restaurant you might visit even without a room, a proper place to sit, a surprisingly useful bedroom and a swimming pool you can close the door on. Syldavia may be nowhere. This, happily, feels like somewhere.