A MILDER VERSION: Despite the hype in Beijing over Christmas and New Year, it is still a more subdued affair compared to events back in the United States. Pictured is a Christmas party for foreign students at Beijing's No.55 Middle School on December 23, 2009 (ZHOU LIANG)

This year, I'm told, was a bit different: in the interest of not insulting millions of struggling Americans, Santa and his reindeer touched down very lightly in the United States last month. New Year's Eve, meanwhile, appears to have left most Americans in a slightly more jovial mood with the hope that—if nothing else—2010 may just possibly be an improvement over 2009.

Either way, I can't say I wasn't pleased to be part of the proceedings, cushioned by a sleigh ride of some 12,500 miles. In fact, the Christmas and New Year holiday season in Beijing was one of mirth and good, sober cheer for me—though for all bah humbug reasons, some might say.

In other words, it passed like a heartbeat.

This was no surprise. China has its own millennial history and rich culture that encourage traditions of gift giving year-round, thus Christmas is not recognized as an official holiday. The contrast is sharp. New Year's Eve, too, is celebrated quietly, based on a Lunar Calendar that, this year, will fall on February 13.

Days off work were far fewer, true. But absent as well were the ever-routine and often unseemly aspects of the holiday season in the United States: Those unrelenting reminders of the importance of the holiday season—whether one wants them or not.

Most notably, these come in the form of ubiquitous announcements of Christmas sales (before, during and after)—along with "New Year" sales—at your favorite mall or store. The goods range from clothes, sweaters and silverware to chocolates, truffles and (yes) car mufflers to just about anything else a relative or friend might (or might not) want to unwrap in the presence of others.

One must often struggle hard to ignore all this, but be forewarned: televisions, radios, and the Internet—along with any other medium of communication, for that matter—will conspire against you at every turn.

Back in 2008, I found the cacophony—even amidst a serious recession—especially grating and tasteless. All over, Christmas trees were assembled, stockings hung and presents wrapped and piled—at times in foreclosed (or soon-to-be foreclosed) houses across the United States. A pretty drunken countdown to 2009 arrived soon after.

There is even quantitative research analyzing the existence of this holiday echo chamber. A December article in Sphere Magazine, in fact, reported on a study asserting that, on average, Americans are subject to more than 100 video, audio and other types of messages—mostly advertisements—over a single day.

This hasn't always been so, but reminders have long endured—some easy to laugh at in the context of the less amplified Christmases of yesteryear.

In more prosperous years past, for instance, many American malls were scenes of chaos as marauding parents jousted to get faddish toys for discerning children. In 1983, poorly mannered adults were seen on televisions surging into toy stores and throwing fists while grabbing for cloth dolls known as "Cabbage Patch Kids." The toys are no longer popular, but memories of the mayhem and injuries they inspired live on.

Also in happier times, New Year's Eve of 2000 was considered a historical occurrence—and not just because the gateway to the 21st century opened with celebrations to match. Rather, it was a fascinating time for other reasons. For one thing, after the champagne was finished, there was a rash of poignant, little-chronicled deaths among the elderly: It seems people born in the waning years of the 1800s held on just to see the very end of the 1900s.

But perhaps even more remarkable was what didn't happen: a supposed "Y2K" computer virus that sparked worldwide panic never materialized, but nor did the neglected predictions of a ferocious al-Qaeda attack on New York City—at least, tragically, not until 20 months later. (Largely forgotten since was the gulf between the hype of the former compared with the painfully inevitable veracity of the latter.)

The kindness and giving inspired by Western-oriented winter holidays should be welcome everywhere, of course. Rather, it would be wrong, even unfair, to say these Western traditions didn't have their place in the capital of the world's most populous nation—especially at a time when China has emerged as an industrializing nation thanks, in large part, to the same free market principles that give Santa's reindeer traction in the United States.

Accordingly, just about every Beijing mall played its part this year by offering its holiday helpings of Christmas music, decorations and redundant reindeer songs. Naturally, there were the odes to Santa Claus, too—most often in the form of cheerful, yet sometimes embarrassed-looking Westerners seeking to augment their English teaching salaries. And while there was certainly some New Year's partying to be had, it scarcely resembled the flood of a mass, alcohol-fueled citywide affair like in the United States.

But to many foreigners amid the hutongs, highways and byways of Beijing, Christmas and New Year's here had their own very special, magical meaning: They were all but invisible.

And I kind of liked it.

The author is an American living in Beijing