When I was preparing to move to Germany, a friend told me about the wonder of German windows: they open two ways. Indeed, upon moving in to my first apartment, I immediately received a lesson on this technology. Actually opening the windows means swinging the large glass panes inward; with a turn of the handle, though, the windows can also be tilted at vertical slant—a process known as kippen.
Most German houses do not have air conditioning. For this reason, the heat is very dry inside of the houses—when they actually use the heat, that is. Apparently it’s not healthy to sleep with the knob cranked up to 5 (the highest setting in my apartment), so before bed, the heat is always drastically reduced.
What the Germans also consider unhealthy, though, is a lack a fresh air. When Germans walk into a room, they immediately comment on the air quality. If that remark includes the words dicke Luft (thick air), I’ve learned to prepare for an imminent wave of the outdoors to come rushing through a fully opened window.
Quite remarkably, this phenomenon actually has a name: Lüften. Verb. The act of opening the windows in a house or room for a minimal period of 10 to 20 minutes per day to ensure the circulation of clean, healthy fresh air.
In the summer, I never noticed the degree to which the Germans honor this rule. Naturally, I welcomed wind wafting through open windows when the sun beat down relentlessly from a clear blue sky. On warm autumn afternoons, slight breezes trickling through the room, ruffling sheets and calendar pages, also created a comfortable atmosphere. However, as the temperatures started dropping into numbers below freezing and the sun entered its winter hibernation, I wasn’t prepared to keep opening—or even tilting—my windows everyday.
Lüften, though, is a habit especially noticeable at the school where I work. Students (and, thus, teachers) are not allowed to wear the coats inside the classroom. Nonetheless, after every class period, the teachers crank open the windows to eliminate the “stickiness” from the previous group of adolescents. I, unfortunately, generally enter the classroom about this time—sans coat—and spend the next 20 minutes shivering while I arrange my papers and books for the upcoming lesson.
In fact, lüften has even been mentioned in pre-teaching announcements. During one class, the teacher vehemently reminded the students to at least tilt open their windows for the required time allotment every day. This practice, she continued, would help ensure continued health through the long, cold winter.
Maybe it’s just me, but this so-called wisdom seems to refute every ounce of common sense I posses. Who in their right mind would open their windows—and leave them open—when the ground is piled with a foot of snow and the air temperature hasn’t risen above 10 degrees in over a week?
Now, I like fresh air as much as the next person—on the way from my house to my car and from my car into whatever building I may be entering. But before I came to Germany, I never thought letting a wave of arctic air into my living quarters was a good idea.
Lüften, however, is contagious behavior. Over the last months, I’ve started to cultivate a dog-like sense of smell. Upon entering a room, I start sniffing around, examining the air quality and determining which window needs to be cracked. As soon as I sense the air has been stagnant too long, I fling open a window, or two, or three, desperately lapping up the fresh air.
No matter if it’s cold outside—I have acquired a pile of blankets, a hot water bottle and a teapot that can provide an endless supply of warm beverages. Huddled under a pile of comforters, wearing two sweaters, and sipping steaming tea, I’ve endured many icy 20-minute air-cleansing sessions in my small flat. This, though, is much better than the alternative.
If, for some reason, I neglect to let the prescribed daily amount of fresh air into my room and leave the heat turned on a tad too high, I lie in bed at night with my lights off, panting and imagining myself suffocating from the stifling air. The temporary solution is to drape a soaking washcloth over the freestanding heater grate, all the while making a mental note to throw open my windows first thing the next morning.
Eventually, though, I suspect I, too, will fully succumb to the curious, OCD-like behavior of strictly regulating the air flow in my house—even in the middle of a snowstorm—and consider the habit of properly opening my windows for 10 minutes every day as essential as brushing my teeth.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go crack my window—the air’s been sitting still just a tad too long.
