There is a particular vibration that rises through the soles of your shoes when you walk through Bávaro at dawn, a tremor that has nothing to do with the asphalt warming beneath the Caribbean sun and everything to do with a destination that simply refuses to sit still. What moves in Punta Cana—and I say this because I watch it from my window, because I breathe it on every corner of this coastal strip I cover as though tending my own courtyard—is not merely poured concrete or hotel occupancy percentages printed on official ledgers.
