The Cantinas of La 44: A Journey to the Medellín That Refuses to Die

La 44: An Artery That Beats with Another Era

If you walk along Avenida 44 in Medellín, between La Playa and San Juan, you might not see anything special at first glance. Mechanical workshops, auto parts storefronts, the smell of gasoline, and traffic that never sleeps. But if you look closely, among those gray storefronts there are wooden doors that open at nightfall. Inside, a tango by Gardel plays, someone orders "una pola bien fría" (a nice cold beer), and cigarette smoke traces figures over the pool table. Those doors are the cantinas of La 44, the last bastions of a Medellín that refuses to die.

This corridor, which today seems purely industrial, was in the 1960s and 1970s the epicenter of Antioquia's bohemian scene. While the downtown area dressed in suits and ties during the day, La 44 shed its formalities when the sun went down. Here there were no protocols: there was beer, aguardiente, heartbreak music, and conversations that could last until dawn. Urban historians call it "the last frontier of nostalgia," and they are not wrong.

Origins: When La 44 Was the City Limit

To understand why the cantinas of La 44 are so special, you have to go back to the early 20th century. At that time, Medellín was a city that barely stretched beyond Parque de Berrío. Avenida 44, which was then a dirt trail, marked the western limit of the city. Beyond it, there were only pastures, some farms, and the road to western Antioquia.

With the industrialization of the 30s and 40s, the city began to grow westward. Textile factories like Coltejer and Fabricato brought thousands of peasants looking for work. La 44 became the border between the formal city and the working-class neighborhoods that were born without permission. And where there are thirsty workers, there are cantinas.

The first cantinas on La 44 were makeshift establishments: a wide door, a wooden counter, beer barrels, and a jukebox playing at full volume. There were few pretensions. The business was simple: sell cheap liquor and offer a space where the worker could forget the hardships of the day for a few hours.

What few know is that La 44 was also a meeting point for the muleteers coming down from Santa Elena and Guarne. They brought coffee, corn, and contraband aguardiente. The cantinas served as informal collection centers and as places to exchange news. At those tables, they talked about the price of coffee, political fights, and love affairs that no one was supposed to know about.

The Influence of the Railways

A fact that almost no one remembers: the Estación del Ferrocarril de Antioquia, located a few blocks from La 44, was key to the rise of these cantinas. The train drivers and railway workshop workers were frequent customers. When a train arrived from Puerto Berrío or Santa Marta, the workers went straight to the nearest cantina to celebrate or lament the trip. That mix of people from all regions gave La 44 a cosmopolitan character that no other sector of the city had.

In the 50s, with the arrival of radio and then television, cantinas became the places where people gathered to listen to radio soap operas and football matches. The owners installed huge speakers, and those who didn't have a radio at home went to the cantina to experience the thrill of goals by Nacional or Medellín. That tradition of watching football in the cantina remains alive today, although now it's on television screens.

Timeline: Milestones of Cantina Bohemia

• 1930-1945: The first informal cantinas are born on La 44, serving factory workers and muleteers.
• 1950: The avenue consolidates as an industrial and commercial corridor. Cantinas become formal, and some already have their own names.
• 1960: Political gatherings appear. La 44 becomes a refuge for union leaders and university students.
• 1970: Golden age of bohemia. Poets, musicians, and journalists make cantinas their second home.
• 1980: Drug trafficking violence hits downtown Medellín. Many cantinas close, but a few resist.
• 1990: Economic liberalization and the arrival of shopping malls change consumption habits. Cantinas enter a crisis.
• 2000-2010: Gentrification of the downtown area begins to displace traditional businesses. Surviving cantinas become unofficial cultural heritage.
• 2020-2026: A timid renaissance. New generations rediscover cantinas as spaces of memory and authenticity.

Cantina El Faro: Where the Political Gatherings of the 70s Were Born

If there is one cantina that deserves its own chapter in the history of Medellín, it is Cantina El Faro. Located on La 44 with Calle 45, this establishment with its faded yellow facade is a living museum of Antioquia's politics. In the 70s, when the country was under a state of siege and traditional parties dominated the landscape, El Faro was the place where the disaffected gathered.

Journalists from the newspaper El Colombiano, professors from the University of Antioquia, and union leaders from the textile factories sat at the back tables to discuss the country's situation. It wasn't a formal gathering; there was no agenda or moderator. Someone would simply arrive with news, put it on the table, and the others would tear it apart with arguments. Aguardiente was the fuel for those discussions that sometimes ended in shouts and other times in hugs.

The old-timers in the neighborhood say that several strategies for the worker strikes of 1975 and 1977 were born in El Faro. Union leaders used the cantina as a meeting point because it was a public place where no one would raise suspicion. While the police watched the union headquarters outside, the next move was being planned inside. The owner at that time, who went by "Don Óscar," never asked what his customers were talking about. His only rule was that no one went without a drink.

Today, El Faro is still open, although it no longer receives the union leaders of yesteryear. The current customers are mechanics from nearby workshops and some retirees who sit down to remember the old days. On the walls still hang black-and-white photos of the football teams of the 70s and a portrait of Jorge Eliécer Gaitán that someone put up decades ago and no one has dared to remove. It is recommended to check opening hours before visiting, as the establishment opens according to the owner's mood.

El Faro and Censorship

A curious fact: during the era of the Security Statute of President Julio César Turbay (1978-1982), the police raided El Faro several times looking for "subversive material." They never found anything, because the customers had developed a secret code: when someone saw a police car, they shouted "¡ahí viene la factura!" (here comes the bill!) and everyone changed the conversation to football or horse racing. That phrase became so famous in the area that it is still used today among the oldest regulars.

Bar El Paraíso: The Pool Hall That Survived Three Generations

Half a block from El Faro, on La 44 with Calle 44, is Bar El Paraíso. The name may sound pretentious for an establishment with a gray facade and a rusty sign, but for those who know its history, that name makes perfect sense. El Paraíso was, in the 60s and 70s, the temple of billiards in Medellín. Its three green-felt tables received the best players in the city, who came to bet money on games that could last for hours.

The founder, a man named Manuel "El Gordo" Restrepo, was a legendary character. It was said that he had learned to play billiards in the ports of the Magdalena River and that he arrived in Medellín fleeing a gambling debt. He bought the establishment in 1965 with his savings and turned it into a thriving business. His golden rule was simple: "You come here to play, not to fight. Whoever fights, leaves." That philosophy allowed him to survive the most violent times in the city.

What makes El Paraíso special is that it has passed through three generations of the same family. El Gordo Restrepo died in 1994, but his son Jorge and then his grandson Andrés have kept the business going with the same logic. The pool tables are the same ones from the 70s, with the cloth changed dozens of times but the original wood intact. The cues hang on the wall, each with a plaque indicating the name of its regular owner. Some of those names no longer exist, but their cues remain there, like a silent memorial.

El Paraíso is not just a pool hall. It is also a place where you eat well. The menu hasn't changed in fifty years: bandeja paisa, sancocho de gallina, and the famous "caldo de res" (beef soup) that has been served since 6 in the morning. Prices are as of August 2026 and remain popular: a caldo de res costs around $12,000 COP and a cold beer $5,000 COP. The establishment is open Monday through Saturday from 10 in the morning until the last customer leaves, which is usually late.

The Art of the Carom

Connoisseurs say that at El Paraíso they play "old school" billiards, that is, three-cushion billiards that requires millimeter precision. Young people who arrive with their cell phones to record games are surprised to see veterans calculating angles and spins without needing any app. "Billiards is mathematics, but it's also patience," says a regular 70-year-old customer who prefers not to give his name. "There's no rush here. You sit down, order a beer, and wait your turn. That's how you learn to live."

La Voz del Pueblo: The Cantina That Was a Refuge for Poets and Composers

Of all the cantinas on La 44, La Voz del Pueblo has the most artistic soul. This establishment, located on the corner of La 44 with Calle 42, was during the 70s and 80s the meeting point for poets, composers, and musicians of the Nueva Ola antioqueña. Here they didn't talk as much about politics as about verses, songs, and bohemian life in general.

The atmosphere was different from other cantinas. Instead of the heartbreak music that played everywhere, at La Voz del Pueblo you heard boleros, bossa nova, and the first attempts at rock in Spanish. Customers brought their guitars, and impromptu musical gatherings would form that could last until dawn. Some of those encounters gave rise to songs that later became famous on local radio, although many of their authors never received credit.

The most remembered figure of La Voz del Pueblo is a character known as "El Tuerto Giraldo," a street poet who recited verses in exchange for beer. Giraldo was not just another bohemian: he was a cultured man who had studied literature at the University of Antioquia but had chosen street life. His poems spoke of the Medellín of working-class neighborhoods, of the washerwomen of the river, and of impossible loves. Literature students of that time sought him out to hear him recite and to write down his verses, which were never published in any book.

La Voz del Pueblo was also a place of cultural resistance during the years of drug trafficking. While the city sank into violence, this establishment remained a space for creation and memory. Composers kept writing songs of love and heartbreak, refusing to let fear rob them of their inspiration. That attitude earned it the respect of the entire sector.