My obsession with ventilation began long before the pandemic. Five years ago, when I moved from central Tokyo to the coast of Japan, a blanket of humidity seemed to levitate out from the sea and the surrounding mountains, wrapping everything I owned in a moist haze. Combined with crushing summer heat, it cultivated a perfect recipe for mold.
That first summer, my ventilation game was weak. The tatami mats—traditional Japanese straw flooring—sprouted dark clumps. A yeasty smell took root in the entryway, and sure enough, on close inspection, a few pairs of my shoes were baking their own bread. Books placed near windows seemed to become sentient with ever-evolving tendrils of hyphae along their spines.
I asked around. Was this normal? “Oh yes. Welcome to mold country,” was the common refrain. Old-timers told harrowing stories of hanging clothes out to dry in the sun and forgetting to take them in at night. By the next morning, they’d gone feral. The wet, stagnant night air was mold heaven. I was traumatized. For 10 months of the year, the area was idyllic, livable, and most importantly, dry. But how would I survive the sticky summers? I had never once before given thought to ventilation.
My personal concern is now a global one. Ventilation plays a major role in transmission of the coronavirus: The odds of catching the coronavirus are nearly 20 times higher indoors than if you’re outside. Droplets containing the virus are insidious. They can linger in a badly ventilated room, potentially spreading throughout even if you’re keeping a safe distance from others. People who are asymptomatic don’t sneeze or cough, ..
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