Karol G and Airbnb turn Medellín rooftop into 'Tropicoqueta' world for just 24 fans

Only 24 people made it past the door in Medellín. Not to a stadium or a club, but to a rooftop reimagined as the bright, full-sensory world of Tropicoqueta—the new album by Karol G. For one night, the Colombian star teamed up with Airbnb to build a living, breathing set piece: a party-meets-art-installation where fans could sip piña coladas from real pineapples, get glitter paint from local artists, and shake maracas with a live orchestra as the city stretched out below.

The event ran on July 29, 2025, and it wasn’t a VIP upsell or a promo stop. It was invitation-only, free to apply, and small by design. Twenty-four fans got to share space with the artist in her hometown, with everything—from the colors to the playlists—shaped to mirror the album’s moods. The idea was simple: take Tropicoqueta off the streaming platforms and let people walk around inside it.

How the one-night Medellín experience worked

Guests arrived onto a tropical rooftop oasis built for one purpose: immersion. There were jungle plants and bold florals. A Pineapple Welcome Area served icy piña coladas out of an actual Medellín-style street cart, the kind you see on a hot afternoon in the Valley. The soundscape was the album itself—Tropicoqueta in full bloom—setting the tempo for everything that followed.

From there, the night split into pockets of activity. A Showgirl Sparkle Station offered handpainted body art from local artists—bright flowers, coconuts, and swirls of glitter that caught the city lights. Around the corner, the Tropical Treasures Bar turned into a craft table with a purpose: guests designed one-of-a-kind charm bracelets using beads sourced from Medellín markets. Mini guavas and pineapples, tiny hearts and music notes—small pieces that carried real meaning for fans who follow every lyric and look.

Music wasn’t background noise here. In a dedicated Tropical Space, guests picked up maracas, bongos, and tambourines as one of Karol G’s favorite orchestras, Tomate's, played cuts from the album and a few extras. It felt like a jam session more than a show—close quarters, easy energy, and that Medellín blend of rhythm and warmth.

Food and drink matched the tone. Colombian bites kept moving through the crowd—comfort staples that travel well at a rooftop party. As the night neared its last chorus, the host gathered everyone for a final toast: Palomas for those who wanted them, a non-alcoholic option for those who didn’t. The group raised their glasses over the city, a small circle in a big place.

Getting in was the hard part. Applications opened June 30 and closed July 5. There was no fee to apply, but travel and lodging were on the guests. Airbnb kept the headcount at 24, which kept the energy intimate and made the experience feel like a private chapter, not a pop-up store.

• A one-night rooftop build in Medellín shaped around the album’s colors, sounds, and textures
• Welcome drinks served from an authentic local street cart, with piña coladas inside fresh pineapples
• Showgirl Sparkle Station with Medellín body artists, glitter, and album-inspired designs
• Bracelet making with beads handpicked from local markets, from tiny fruit charms to musical notes
• Live set by Tomate's and a hands-on percussion corner (tambourines, bongos, maracas)
• Colombian snacks and sips all night, capped by a rooftop toast with Palomas or zero-proof options

That mix of crafted detail and local texture—the cart, the beads, the artists—was the point. The night wasn’t trying to look like Medellín on social media; it actually used Medellín. For fans, that matters. It’s different to listen to a tropical beat with a pineapple in hand, glitter on your shoulders, and a live horn line bouncing off nearby rooftops.

If you’ve followed the rise of special one-off stays and experiences, you’ll recognize the strategy. Airbnb has leaned into limited, splashy events that sell a feeling as much as a room: the Malibu Dreamhouse hosted by “Ken,” a night in the “Home Alone” house, even a mossy “Shrek’s Swamp” in the Scottish Highlands. These moments are small but loud—they travel fast online, and they touch culture where fans already live. This one’s a twist: less about the place as a set, more about the artist’s universe anchored in a real hometown.

For the city, it’s quiet but good attention. Medellín has spent years building a reputation as a creative hub—music, design, fashion, tech. A global star bringing a global platform home, then hiring local body artists and sourcing from local markets, adds to that story. It shows off the craft and the people behind it, not just the skyline.

A new album, a strategy, and what it says about fan culture

Tropicoqueta arrived on June 20, 2025, and it didn’t slip in quietly. In its first days, the album cleared 28 million streams across major platforms, helped by early standouts “Si Antes Te Hubiera Conocido” and “Latina Foreva,” which started climbing Billboard and Latin charts almost immediately. The project doesn’t sit in one lane. It moves through moods—sultry to celebratory—with a through-line of tropical color and percussion you can feel in your shoulders.

There’s a reason it sounds familiar in the right ways. The album nods to giants: Rocio Durcal, La India, Selena Quintanilla, Amanda Miguel, Myriam Hernandez. That’s not nostalgia for its own sake. It’s memory turned into rhythm—classic vocal drama, salsa and bolero echoes, pop hooks that stick. The rooftop experience drew a straight line from those references to the present: live horns and hand drums, soft glitter and deep color, and a small crowd moving together in time.

Pop stars sell big ideas all the time—eras, aesthetics, worlds—but the live translation often stops at a stage set. This was different because it was small and tactile. Fans didn’t just watch the world; they wore it, tasted it, and helped make it. You can hear a steel drum on headphones. It hits differently when you’re holding the bongo while a trumpet line lifts over the rail.

From a business angle, these ultra-limited events are smart. They’re scarce by design, which makes them feel special, and they’re built to be shared, which pushes the story wider than the 24 people in the room. Free entry removes the “pay-to-play” critique, though covering your own travel keeps it grounded in reality. For an artist, it deepens the bond with core fans. For a platform, it’s a clean way to sit at the heart of a cultural moment without trying to own it.

The selection process was tight—applications in a five-day window, confirmations to a tiny list—and that scarcity shifts the meaning. When people talk about the night, they don’t just describe what happened; they talk about what it felt like to be one of the few. That’s powerful word of mouth. It also resets expectations for album cycles, where a “release event” can be more than a listening party or a late-night TV slot.

Medellín as the setting adds another layer. Home turf changes the energy: an artist moves differently, talks differently, and usually shares more when they’re a short drive from where they grew up. It also pulls the city into the story: the vendors who supplied beads, the artists who painted designs, the musicians who plugged into the mix. The point wasn’t to fly in a prefab set—it was to amplify what was already there.

There’s also the simple fan logic: proximity beats spectacle. A stadium show is a rush, but standing shoulder to shoulder in a small space with live percussion behind you and the city lights in front of you? That stays with you. The rooftop toast sealed it: Palomas in hand, the night cooling down, everyone locking in on the same feeling at the same time.

Tropicoqueta looks built for that kind of live intimacy. The songs have room to breathe, and the references are meant to be felt. You can imagine other small-run moments tied to the album—markets, dance rooms, percussion circles—even if they never happen. That’s what well-built worlds do: they suggest a life beyond the tracklist.

For now, the Medellín night stands on its own—one date, 24 spots, no reruns. The album keeps moving on charts and in playlists, the clips from the rooftop keep circulating, and the idea lands: music isn’t just audio anymore. It’s a place you can visit, if only for a night, if you’re lucky enough to get in.