Laureles: The Code of Silences Between Houses

The Myth of the Perfect Grid: How Elongated Blocks Define Intimacy

If you look at Laureles from above, the first thing that jumps out is that obsession with geometry. The blocks aren't square like in downtown Medellín, but elongated rectangles, almost like domino tiles. That's no coincidence. When urban planners designed this neighborhood in the 1940s, they envisioned a city model where privacy was an attainable luxury for the emerging middle class. Wide streets, tree-lined sidewalks, and those elongated blocks created a rhythm of life where the neighbor next door couldn't see your patio, but could hear your radio. It was a code of silences: houses turned their backs to each other, all facing the street, but with inner courtyards that functioned as private lungs.

That design, which today seems like a rarity in a city growing upward, was a direct response to the chaos of downtown. Laureles was born as a garden suburb, with green spaces that weren't large parks, but small havens between blocks. Avenida Nutibara, 70th Street, 80th Street… all were laid out so that the car wasn't king, but the pedestrian. But of course, that was before the car became a status symbol. Today, those same streets that invited strolling are filled with traffic, and the houses that once had front gardens now have electrified fences. The myth of the perfect grid remains on the blueprints, but in reality, the silence is no longer the same.

The interesting thing is that you can still walk along Calle 34, between 70th and 80th Streets, and feel that intimacy the architects sought. The houses aren't tall, the mango and gualanday trees cover the facades, and the city noise fades away. That's the magic of Laureles: its urban fabric hasn't completely broken. But you have to know how to look. Because when you look closely, you find that many of those original houses no longer exist. They were demolished to make way for apartment towers that break the human scale. And there lies the dilemma: how to maintain intimacy when 15-story buildings look down on you from above?

The Inner Courtyards That Became Parking Lots: The Loss of Common Space

In the original houses of Laureles, the inner courtyard was the heart. It wasn't a luxury; it was a necessity. There, laundry was hung, afternoon coffee was enjoyed, chickens were raised in the 1950s, and children played while mothers knitted. That courtyard, usually about 20 square meters, was surrounded by bedrooms and the kitchen, creating a cool microclimate that mitigated the heat of Medellín. But with the arrival of the car, everything changed. In the 1970s and 80s, the courtyard was paved over to fit the Renault 4 or the Mazda 323. The family gathering space became a passageway, a cold, lifeless garage.

Today, walking through Laureles and seeing those houses with the metal door raised and a car inside is a reminder of how progress killed coexistence. Architects who study the neighborhood call this "the loss of the intermediate space": that place that was neither street nor house, but a filter between the public and the private. In houses that still preserve the original courtyard, like some on Calle 36 with Carrera 74, you can see how the vegetation still survives. There are bougainvillea climbing the walls, ferns in hanging pots, and even a lemon tree that bears fruit every December. But they are exceptions.

The curious fact that few know is that in the elongated blocks of Laureles, the backyards used to be connected to each other by narrow alleys. This allowed neighbors to lend each other tools, share water from the hose, or simply shout to let each other know the bread was ready. Those alleys, now closed off with fences or converted into service passages, were the neighborhood's social network. If you look closely, you can still see the traces of those back doors that led to the alley, bricked up or cemented over. Each one is a story of how the neighborhood disintegrated.

The Hand-Painted Walls That Tell Stories of Founding Families

One of the things that stands out most in Laureles are the walls. Those high walls, sometimes two meters tall, that surround the old houses. They aren't simple concrete block walls; many are hand-painted with scenes that seem taken from a family album. On Carrera 74 with Calle 33, for example, there is a wall depicting a rural landscape with a farm and a horse. The painting, though somewhat worn by sun and rain, still retains vivid colors: the green of the pastures, the blue of the sky, the white of the house. That wall was painted by Don Pedro, a mason who arrived from Sonsón in 1948 and built his house with his own hands. His granddaughter, who still lives there, says Don Pedro painted a different scene each year, like a calendar of his life.

These walls are not just decoration. They are a visual archive of the founding families of Laureles. In the 1950s and 60s, when the neighborhood was almost rural, homeowners used the walls to tell their origin: the town they came from, the trades they learned, the saints they venerated. There are walls with virgins, mountain landscapes, farm animals. There is even one, on Calle 35 with Carrera 73, that has a map of Antioquia painted in gold letters, pointing to the family's hometown: Santa Rosa de Osos. That wall dates from 1953 and was painted by a schoolteacher who lived there.

But these walls are disappearing. With the arrival of new buildings, the walls are torn down or covered with modern materials. Hand-painted murals are not profitable for developers, who prefer smooth, minimalist facades. So, if you want to see them, you have to walk slowly through the oldest streets, like Calle 33 between 74th and 75th, or Calle 36 between 70th and 71st. There, about 20 domestic murals still survive, according to an informal census by architecture students from the Universidad Nacional in 2024. But each year, two or three are lost, erased by plaster or white enamel.

The fact that few tourists know is that some of these walls have hidden inscriptions. Underneath the paint, if you scratch carefully, names of the first inhabitants, birth dates, even verses of poems appear. It's like an urban palimpsest. On a wall on Carrera 73, for example, you can read: "Here lived the Mejía family, 1942-1998." A neighbor discovered this when the house was sold and the new owner wanted to paint the facade. Fortunately, he managed to convince him to leave that inscription visible. Today, it's a landmark for nostalgics who walk the neighborhood.

The New Silence: How Tall Buildings Killed the Murmur of Windows

Before, in Laureles, the sound of life came in through the windows. The houses had wooden windows with small panes, which opened inward to let the air in. From the street, you could hear the clatter of spoons against pots, the crying of children, the radio soap operas. It was a constant murmur, like a river in the background. But since they started building towers of 12, 15, and even 20 stories, that murmur faded. The new buildings have sealed windows, with tempered glass that doesn't let noise in, but also doesn't let life in. The silence that imposes itself is not one of tranquility, but of disconnection.

The oldest residents of the neighborhood remember how, in the 1960s, windows were the main channel of communication. Women would lean out the window to talk to the neighbor sweeping the sidewalk. Children would climb onto the sill to watch the cars go by. Lovers would whistle from the street for their girlfriend to open the window. That is lost. Now, the windows of the buildings are mirrors that reflect the sun, but don't show what's happening inside. The neighborhood became safer, some say, but also colder.

The phenomenon is not just acoustic, but social. The new towers have doormen with security, elevators with access cards, and balconies facing the street, but where no one sits. In the old houses, on the other hand, people would put chairs on the sidewalk, under the trees, and sit to watch life go by. That is no longer seen. The street ceased to be an extension of the house. And although there are exceptions, like on Calle 34 with Carrera 70, where a group of neighbors organized a "living block" with planters and benches, the trend is for public space to empty out.

In July 2026, the debate over building heights in Laureles remains open. The Mayor's Office of Medellín has proposed limiting construction to 8 stories in some areas, but developers are pushing to continue building towers. Meanwhile, those of us who live here feel that the new silence is not that of the countryside, but of a neighborhood becoming anonymous. The murmur of the windows is gone, and with it, part of the identity.

Map of 5 Original Houses (1920-1950) That Still Stand

If you want to see what Laureles was like before the buildings changed it, here are five houses that still stand, almost like living museums. They are all inhabited, so respect the owners' privacy. But from the street, you can appreciate the facades and architectural details.

• Casa de la Calle 33 # 74-12: Built in 1928 by the Londoño family. It is one of the oldest in the neighborhood. It has a gabled clay tile roof, carved wooden doors, and a side wall with a mural of a virgin. The facade retains its original yellow color, though retouched. It can be seen from the sidewalk, but not entered.
• Casa de la Carrera 73 # 35-08: Dating from 1935. It is an example of Antioquian republican architecture, with polished cement baseboards and guillotine windows. The inner courtyard still has a water well, though it is no longer used. The owner, Doña Rosa, 89, sometimes comes out to water the plants and greets the curious.
• Casa de la Calle 36 # 70-45: Built in 1942 by an engineer who worked on the construction of the Olaya Herrera Airport. It has a more modern style, with straight lines and a rooftop terrace. The most striking feature is the front garden, with a century-old ceiba tree that shades the entire block. It is a meeting point for birds.
• Casa de la Carrera 75 # 34-20: This one is from 1950, one of the last from the founding period. It has a garage that still retains its original wooden door and a hand-painted sign that says "Sewing Workshop." The facade is exposed brick, something rare in Laureles. The family living there is the third generation of tailors.
• Casa de la Calle 34 # 72-50: A hidden gem. Built in 1948, it has a side hallway leading to a backyard with a wood-fired oven. The facade is white, with stucco moldings imitating stone. Neighbors say a bakery operated there in the 1950s. Today it is a family home, but the oven is still used to make arepas on weekends.

Each of these houses is a testament to how things were built when time wasn't money. The materials were local: fired brick, comino wood, clay tile. The proportions were human: windows at eye level, doors that didn't weigh a ton, courtyards that breathed. If you want to understand Laureles, don't go to the shopping malls. Walk these streets and look carefully. They will tell you more than any guide.

How to Get There and Transportation

Getting to Laureles is easy from any point in Medellín. The neighborhood is well connected by the Metro, the Metrocab