Third Week In SMA Is A Charm
Art Walk Mural
As the third week unfolds, I find myself, much like at home, trying to understand,“What day is it?” It’s a normal occurrence for someone my age, but here, the beautiful weather is the real culprit. Since every day seems to follow the same script—cool, crisp mornings followed by bright, warm, postcard-perfect sunshine in the afternoon—time has truly lost all meaning. I suspect I might be living in some kind of highly enjoyable, sun-drenched "Groundhog Day."
The routine, if you can call this leisurely existence a "routine," has blissfully settled in. Early morning wake-ups (mostly because the bladder knows no time zones), a quick check of the emails, a read of the world news (just enough to make me happy I'm still here), a light breakfast, and then, depending on the day's physical limitations, getting ready for pickleball. For those who’ve been following along, you know the entire reason I came to San Miguel was to try and play this deceptively addictive game, and of course, to escape the brutal, soul-crushing grey of a February back home.
It sounded like a perfect plan right up until my body decided to stage a dramatic revolt. First, I was sidelined in the fall by a bad case of plantar fasciitis, which meant I had to "try to play, but manage it at the same time." I'd been gingerly playing twice a week with a small, private group of about 20 players at La Capilla and then once a week with the San Miguel Pickleball Club on the public courts. It was a careful, calculated dance, and I was actually feeling pretty good about my self-management until a few days ago.
Tennis Elbow
That's when I noticed a tiny little "twang" in the elbow. I dismissed it, naturally. But by the end of the day, that little twang had become a full-blown, fire-breathing dragon of pain. I immediately went into "medical overload," turning my Airbnb into a makeshift pharmacy with gels, pills, and so much ice my freezer started to complain. The hope was a simple, overnight miracle.
After a day of rest—which felt more like an enforced prison sentence—I rejoined the private group this past Tuesday. The first hour was "okay," which is doctor-speak for "I know I have a problem, but I'm ignoring it." The second hour, however, became a desperate, white-knuckled test of wills. By the final point, I was in agony, and the pain only escalated for the rest of the day.
The self-diagnosis, courtesy of my esteemed local Doctor (Google A.I.) and a few well-placed keywords), is confirmed: “Lateral Epicondylitis,” or the classic, supremely irritating Tennis Elbow. I know this because I had it a few years back. What's frustrating is the cruel irony: I had no arm pain whatsoever since starting pickleball, and now this? It feels like my body is determined to find a way to make me miserable, constantly reminding me that I am, in fact, an aging machine that's due for a total systems overhaul or is the system totally done?
San Miguel Pickleball Club
If you’ve ever had tennis elbow, you know the drill: it’s debilitating, you can’t grip anything, and holding a pickleball paddle is now as plausible as me winning Wimbledon. Dr. A.I. is suggesting a minimum of 30 days of complete rest. Since I already have a PRP injection scheduled for the foot on April 10, the universe has decided to combine my two injuries into one epic recovery timeline:
Now to April 10: Total elbow rest with possible shock wave treatments. I'm calling this the "Aggressive Non-Action Phase."
April 10 - May 20: Foot PRP recovery. This is the deep healing phase for both the foot and the arm. I'll be in the "Full Human Shutdown" mode.
May 20 - June 15: Gradual introduction of forearm isometrics. My goal: not crying while lifting a coffee cup.
Return: Mid-July. Just in time for the humidity.
Here we go again, indeed. It truly sucks, as I've said, to get old, but at least I'm getting two injuries for the price of one international trip.
SMA Street Tacos
Okay, enough with the ailments. With "PB" now standing for "Painful Ban," my days have had to pivot. I hang around the apartment for much of the morning, slowly easing into my new identity as a man who can’t use his right arm, and then I head out to the streets for a long walk. The artwork and street scenes are genuinely amazing. Today, my friend and I did an Art Walk in the Guadalupe neighborhood, which is apparently where all the cool, artsy people live. We passed one single street with well over 50 painted murals on the fences and houses. It was a gorgeous, non-pickleball-related dose of culture.
My eating strategy has settled into a comfortable rhythm: one day eat out, one day eat in for the evening meal or lunch. The casual neighborhood restaurants have been an absolute outstanding find, with pricing that makes the fancier, established places seem like a hilarious joke. Places like La Frontera and Cenaduria have been incredible, authentic discoveries. We also managed to get back to El Rinconcito, where I was able to consume the best Chimichanga of my life—a feat I do not take lightly. I’ve had a massive, perfect chicken sandwich (twice) in the main market (Mercado Ignacio Ramirez) and a Gordita at Mercado de San Juan. But the ultimate, secret prize has been a local taco stand around the corner (it’s so local, it doesn’t even have a name). Two al pastor tacos for under 50 pesos is not a steal—it's a moral victory.
Enchildas
Oh, did I tell you I didn’t have any Internet for about four days? Sigh. That was a special kind of frustrating. The host for the apartment doesn’t speak English, and my Spanish is currently confined to ordering tacos and apologizing for my non-existent internet. My first communication with him about the outage was interesting; he immediately seemed defensive, alluding that this has never happened before, which, naturally, made me believe it happens every Tuesday. That little dance wasted a day or two before we finally, through the magic of Google Translate and frantic hand gestures, realized the modem in the building had simply decided to retire. A few days to get a replacement, and bingo, I was back in the digital world.
I am actually writing this from a great rooftop coffee place right now, and I’m pinching myself, realizing that it’s not the middle of a hot summer, but the chilly, bleak middle of February. Amazing.
Afternoon Coffee
Given this stupid new injury, I’ve made the executive decision to move my return home forward by a week. The boss seemed genuinely perplexed by this—maybe she actually doesn’t want me to come home, or perhaps she just assumed I'd get two injuries fixed with the price of one flight.
We sorted it out, though. I’m confident the dog misses me! As much as it's hard to leave this perfect weather and incredible food, it’s probably for the best to get home and start the long, dull, injury-management process. That’s it for now.
