In the map of the world, if you zoom into Portugal and double zoom a bit north of Lisbon, there is a good chance you might spot Lourinhã. This picturesque little town is famous for three things only: dinosaurs, brandy, and the constant surprise that I am still here.
However, the fog! No travel guide tells you this, but Lourinhã has its own weather personality which should be rated moody, because one minute there is this golden sun bouncing off medieval tiles, and the next you are engulfed in a mist so dense that you completely lose your bearings. The Portuguese call it nevoeiro. I call it sangfroid. I know the term does not match but sounds better than sun-fog-void, you know.
Nonetheless living here has its quirks. For one, the town has a museum entirely dedicated to dinosaurs. As someone who once confused a triceratops with a fancy salad, this has been both educational and humbling for me.
So every day I salute a life-sized T. rex while walking in the newly opened Parque de Cegonha and also drive past several dinosaur sculptures when I go for grocery shopping because every roundabout is adorned with them. From Lourinhanosaurus (the Dinosaur named after the town) to Torvosaurus and Ceratosaurus, we have them all here.
Moreover, grocery shopping is another challenge because even though the shops are adorable and the people are kind, nothing is where one expects it to be. I went in looking for dishwashing liquid last week and left with frozen peas, three lemons, and a calendar from 2022. I have not seen the dish soap since then and I suspect it is hiding behind the dried cod or the fresh prunes, who knows?
Also, time works differently here and appointments are more of a suggestion than a schedule. Recently I made the mistake of calling a technician to fix my Wi-Fi. He said he would come “amanhã” (tomorrow). It has been four “amanhãs” already and I now park myself at the local café where I freeload internet while pretending to work on a novel that has yet to leave chapter one.
Incidentally, the café culture of this town is traditionally unique because the local folks of Lourinhã don’t just grab coffee – they greet each other, they settle in and observe one another and then slowly stir sugar into tiny espresso cups like it’s some form of meditation or medieval ritual. The cafés double up as social hubs too where old men debate politics in loud voices and dramatic gestures while the younger crowd checks football scores with quiet reverence.
The weekly market feels like a mini United Nations, with retirees from Sweden, Germany, and England all queueing politely for local honey. I spent an entire afternoon yesterday attempting to purchase a sun hat from an elderly Portuguese lady who spoke no English. She pantomimed “umbrella” while slapping her forehead, and I mimed “glaring heat.” We understood each other perfectly.
So here I am, in Lourinhã. Living amongst the long lost dinosaurs and fast developing an unhealthy attachment to local pastries. But the town, in all its quiet charm, grows on you because the beaches stretch out endlessly and even the wind, ferocious as it is, starts to feel familiar after a while.
“Is this what you expected?” our daughter asks me suddenly.
“It has small joys and bigger laughs” I tell her.
“Well that’s life” she shrugs.
“É a vida!” I translate automatically.
