We chose Montreal for a reason. My girlfriend, born and raised in New York, had long dreamed of a small-city getaway with charm and history, and the plan was simple: propose in the park, celebrate three days of wandering cobblestones, brunches, museums, and just being together without rush. I booked a five-night stay at a sleek, apartment-style property operated by Sonder under the branding of Marriott Bonvoy — it seemed perfect. On Sunday afternoon, I got down on one knee at the beautiful Westmount Conservatory, the sun gently filtered through glass panels overhead, we said yes, the whole moment felt exactly right.
Monday morning brought a very different tone. While we slept in a bit, enjoying that glow of commitment and new plans, someone knocked on our door at about 10 a.m. It was a staff member, apologetic, looking exhausted — and he said, “Your reservation is cancelled. You and your partner need to vacate your room within one hour.” My first instinct was anger. Why now? Why on the day after the engagement? But inside I was overwhelmed: that moment we had been celebrating suddenly felt fragile. I asked how this could happen — we were still within our reserved dates. He said quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m losing my job. I’m being told to tell as many guests as I can.” Suddenly the human face behind the disruption shifted my reaction from fury to stunned sorrow.
I called Marriott immediately, trying to rebook our accommodations. They found us another property — about a mile away — but rates were higher, and the host hotel only had one night left at the budgeted price. We ended up paying roughly CAD 30 more (about USD 21) for a lesser apartment a bit further from Old Montreal. Marriott offered us 500 Bonvoy points as compensation. It felt like a distraction. We weren’t upset about the small dollar amount so much as the broken promise. The feeling that our special moment was downgraded by a corporate decision that erased the room, erased our booking, erased part of our peace.
In the lobby at the new hotel, the frustration was everywhere. Families, couples, solo travelers — all looked defeated. A few told us they were given even less notice: later-night messages, cancelled housekeeping, no alternative. Many vowed they would never book Marriott again. For us, the engagement still happened. The plane ride home still held laughter and memories. But the first full day of our trip ended not with a toast but a scramble. We walked hand in hand through Old Montreal that evening, trying to reclaim something of the moment, reminding each other we were together and that mattered most.
Behind the scenes, the reason became public a short time later: Marriott announced it had terminated its licensing agreement with Sonder due to a “default” by the company. Sonder then filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy and began winding down U.S. operations immediately. Buildings once labelled “Sonder by Marriott Bonvoy” were no longer supported by Marriott’s booking system; guest stays became effectively void, sometimes mid-check-in or mid-stay.
It’s a massive failure of trust. Guests who booked through Marriott believed they were staying in a Marriott-affiliated property — loyal members, honeymooners, families celebrating milestones. To get an eviction notice during your trip is surreal. The link between brand and room dissolved overnight. For us, it meant that a joyful trip became patched with logistical stress and sour shade.
At the same time, I felt empathy for the on-site staff. The man at our door who delivered the bad news was probably just as shocked as we were. He said he’d worked for Sonder for years and had only found out yesterday. When I raised my voice inside, I stopped. He wasn’t the enemy — the system was. After our conversation I paused, took a breath, and chose to thank him. Because amid the corporate collapse and the ruined bookings, there were still people doing their jobs, trying — and upset themselves.
For anyone reading this: if you’re planning a stay, especially at a hybrid apartment-hotel model, check exactly who operates the property. Confirm booking paths, cancellation protections, and what happens if the licensing owner goes bust. In fairness, we managed. We got a new property, we celebrated, we’ll remember Montreal for the moment of yes. But we’ll also remember the knock-on-wood of a hotel partnership collapsing beneath us.
Our engagement didn’t get ruined. One of the happiest days of our lives still shone bright. But the room we booked, the place we trusted? That got erased. And that matters. Because travel isn’t just about flights and destinations — it’s about feeling safe, supported, and certain that when you check-in, your stay actually exists. Marriott said they would refund bookings and assist guests. But some travellers still reported being told to contact their credit cards instead.
We walked out of the second hotel on time, hand in hand. We made it to brunch, we told the story, and yes, we laughed at the absurdity of being engaged and evicted in the same 48-hour window. I don’t blame Marriott or Sonder personally — it’s complex. But I wish they had done a better job protecting the moment. Because when you propose, when you book a stay to celebrate love, you expect continuity, good faith, and a room that doesn’t disappear mid-trip.
In the end, we’ll tell our grandkids: we got engaged in Montreal, and yes — the hotel kicked us out. And we’ll laugh, because we’re still together. But we’ll also remember that one of the happiest days of our life carried a little shadow. And that matters too.
