Don’t do it. Never book a brand new hotel. At least, not if the actual sleeping matters.
It gets worse when it’s peak season. Hot season. The chaos engine. Hotels lie about openings. They push dates back. So when you book early, there is a decent chance the rooms simply won’t exist yet. Or if they do exist they might be half-constructed nightmares. And if it is busy out? You aren’t moving anywhere.
How brands handle this varies. Sometimes they shrug. Tough luck. Sometimes they throw in points. A nice gesture. In the best case you get moved somewhere comparable. But that is the least likely outcome. Some travelers roll the dice anyway. They argue for a free night. Or a room upgrade with the property eating the difference. Good luck.
Hotels open when they are not ready.
Punch lists hang over the staff’s heads like swords. Construction crews are still in the hallway. Beds sit stacked against walls. Waiting for rooms to finish. Service is shaky. Staff don’t know how the lights work yet. Everything takes twice as long. You get miscues. Lots of them.
One reader learned this the hard way. With a wedding.
The property? Cleviá San Miguel de Allender Autograph Collection. Sounds fancy. Sounds safe. They booked it for their daughter’s nuptials. The hotel technically opened in March 2025. Or so it seemed.
Reviews told a different story. By December only about 20% of rooms were finished. Active construction throughout the stay. A Reddit report in January described hell. No Wi-Fi. No heat. Sewer smells. Water flooding bathrooms. Non-working phones. Broken TVs.
The reader had a contract. A hefty one. $63,877 to book out the place.
Marriott said it would be smooth. Marriott said don’t worry. Everything would be ready.
They were wrong.
Guests arrived on Holy Week. A critical time. Demand in San Miguel de Allende was through the roof. They arrived to find no AC. Exposed wiring. Doors that wouldn’t lock.
Missing peepholes.
Some rooms lacked AC vents entirely. How can AC function if it has no vent? The plumbing failed. Septic odor permeated even the presidential suite. Ceilings were open to the sky—or the structure above it. Unfinished electrical work dangled down like frayed nerves.
It was 7 p.m. The rooms still weren’t ready.
The group moved 20 guests to other properties. The rest? Stuck there. Late-night construction rattled their bones.
They charged luxury rates for rooms that didn’t meet basic standards of safety. Habitation requires locking doors. And working plumbing. These were luxuries no one got.
What do you do then?
The organizer emailed Marriott CEO Arne Sorenson. Or whoever the current top dog is. It doesn’t matter who read it.
Marriott Corporate opened a case. They sent an apology. A standard, cold corporate email saying they passed the complaints to “hotel executive management.” Then they backed away. Their stance was clear. The contract is with the hotel. Not us. Marriott washes hands. They point to the franchisee.
The reader demanded a refund. Half the money back on room costs. Full refunds on suites. Plus points. Thirty thousand points for every guest with a Bonvoy account.
The hotel declined.
So the reader lowered the ask. One night refunded for short stays. Two for longer ones. Twenty-five thousand points each. Still generous for rooms with no hot water. Still insulting given the exposed wiring.
The hotel’s written response was a masterpiece of deflection. They acknowledged thirty rooms malfunctioned. But insisted these were caused by factors beyond their control.
“Upon identification of the issues, our operations… worked to find a solution.”
“Purchased additional equipment.”
“Staff available around the clock.”
They blamed invisible external forces. Yet they were proud to have bought extra equipment mid-crisis to plug holes they created by opening unfinished.
The hotel offered to refund four suites. And one night per guest room. They threw in 300,000 Bonvoy points for the host’s account only. Not for the guests who smelled sewage. Just the organizer.
Is that significant? It’s a big number on a page.
It isn’t enough.
You pay for a brand. You trust the label. When you book a Marriott you assume certain standards hold true. Locked doors. Working AC. Beds without holes. Those are not upgrades. They are basics. Charging for rooms with active construction noise and open electrical boxes is a fraud. It requires a room-by-room audit. Then a substantial adjustment.
Hotels hate refunds. They will fight until the bitter end. They don’t want to eat the cost because it looks like weakness on a balance sheet. Marriott stays quiet. Why? Because they are just the marketing layer. A lead generation engine for independently owned properties. You aren’t booking Marriott. You are booking a local business using the Marriott funnel.
But does the organizer accept the points and move on?
Maybe. Fighting is exhausting. The hotel can pull the offer at any time. Legal battles cost more than the room rates. It’s a dirty fight against a brand that owns the legal team budget.
Perhaps taking the three hundred thousand points and blocking them on Instagram is the wisest move. Or maybe she keeps writing letters until the wiring is finally covered.
It’s a toss-up. But the lesson is clear.
New hotels are a gamble. Even with the fancy logos. Even with the promise of smooth transitions. When the construction crew packs up, the guests arrive first. To deal with the mess.
