Luften

“Guten Morgen, Blinken.” 

“Guten Morgen, Klaus.”  Even though it was 9:30 on a cold December morning in Hamburg, Germany, the sun had not fully risen, it was dark, dreary and bone chilling cold. Klaus, my perpetually sunny, perpetually youthful husband kissed the top of my head as I sat at the breakfast nook in our apartment wrapped in a blanket. The window in the nook overlooked a typical Hamburg street, veiled by a  diaphanous curtain of snow falling relentlessly on the ubiquitous bicycle racks in front of brick buildings, graffiti everywhere, mostly large block letters defying rhyme nor reason. Klaus doesn’t allow me to call it gloomy, to him it is peaceful.

Although I was born and raised in Los Angeles, it has taken me 45 years and several years in Hamburg to fully comprehend what a strange, macabre place LA truly is.  Winter in Southern California is much like summer in Southern California, give or take a few degrees. It is as if a very bright light shines on the city continually. There is no place to hide. An environment obsessed with appearances, it leaves no room for soul, either in the heart of the sprawling city itself, or in her citizens who run from their plastic surgeon to their personal trainer to their dietician to their acting coach to their shrink who tells them that she sees improvement (but need more sessions  to the tune of $200 an hour.) 

I have come to realize that all these self-serving activities serve one purpose: to obliterate the aging process. Since there is no need to fight the elements, Angelinos fight their inner demons. It is a warm place with a sordid underbelly which allows things to fester. Almost anything is permissible, even encouraged. Drugs and alcohol are everywhere, kids buy and sell baggies on every corner, they then flock into AA meetings where frustrated second rate actors practice their schtick on fellow addicts.

Los Angeles is a land of beautiful women and beautiful cars. Maintenance is the key to both. Hamburg is a land of hard working women  without cars waiting for the bus on a cold corner with a wool hat pulled down over her hair, maintenance an afterthought. Conversely, museums in Los Angeles are full of paintings of dark, tortured souls, most paintings in German museums are gay and colorful (except for Otto Dix whose people are beyond bizarre.) 

“Give me a kiss to build a dream on,” Klaus sang to me as I spread a thick layer of quark on a hard roll.

  “Do you want to come watch us shoot today? We’re filming on the harbor.”

“Are you out of your mind? It will be freezing down there.” 

“OK, but please give me a kiss to build a dream on before I go, and my imagination can thrive upon that kiss.”

“You are such a jerk.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”  

Klaus always got the last shot. He did again this morning as he looped a wool scarf around his neck, German style, and put on his heavy boots. 

“Happy shooting,” I said as he lumbered down the stairs leading from our fifth floor walk-up. 

Klaus and have been married for 15 years.  He was drop dead gorgeous when we met, and continues to be so even though we are both in our middle 40’s. Half Swedish, half German, he has dark blonde hair, Paul Newman eyes that smile when he laughs, an iron man torso, and those rare genes that enable him to age into a distinguished gentleman.

The fact that he still calls me Blinken, which means twinkle in German, is a bit of a misnomer. It has been many a moon (if ever) since I have twinkled, but I find it endearing and I love him for it. My eyes never smile when I laugh, my adolescent photographs show a teen ager who is very uncomfortable in her own skin. Why? I do not know. I am tall, slim, have great skin, if I do say so myself, but my over active negative thinking processes tend to show on my face, giving me a somewhat petulant expression most of the time - at least this is what I see when I unexpectedly catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. 

Germans tend to be a serious bunch, but in our marriage I am the worry wart, Klaus the happy warrior. We met in Los Angeles where he was filming a documentary on pre World War 2 Germany and I was being paid as a consultant. European History was my major in college, my thesis was on The Third Reich. Being married to a German hunk isn’t always what it is cut out to be, but I prefer it to being married to an obese bald man. We compliment each other, Klaus makes movies, he loves the hustle and bustle, the intrigue, the acting. I write. I like staying home.

Nowhere is the juxtaposition of LA and Hamburg more pronounced than in the German’s obsession with fresh air and their daily habit of luften, where every window is slung wide open. It’s an airing out the likes of which I have never seen. Curtains blow wildly out of most windows at any given moment.

“We Germans worry about mold,” Klaus explained.

“Mold?”

“Yes, mold? We build very tight buildings. Like people, buildings need to breath fresh air every day.”

And so it began. Every day between noon and 1:00 there was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat on my door. “Freulein von der Hyde, öffnen Sie die Tür. Offnen Sie die Tur. Open zee door.” I knew what was coming, so I close my lap top, open my windows, open the skylight in the bathroom, and brace myself for his wrath. Herr Bauer, my landlord, has arrived. His English and my German are both shaky. We communicate in bits and pieces, but we both know that he is not at all happy with my luften, I am not doing it properly.  It is beyond me how there can be an improper way to open a window, but apparently there is. He communicates his displeasure through his gestures, waving his arms wildly as he points to my half open window. It is cold, very cold in the apartment, yet beads of sweat form on his brow as he unzips his jacket, loosens his scarf and stamps his heavy boots. I am used to bare feet and flip flops, these boots almost frighten me.

After three years in Hamburg we returned to La La Land and moved into an apartment on Doheney, just off of Pico.  It’s a snazzy address, Klaus’ career has taken off due to the success of his Hamburg Harbor movie. We have lots of money which is a good thing because our electric bill is astronomical. I keep the air conditioning on high day and night so that I can walk around our apartment wrapped in a blanket. Klaus wears a heavy sweater. We both miss luften.

It's All Temporary