When winter came to Beijing, it arrived as it often does, as a snarling Siberian wind. The cold howled through the hutongs and around the ring roads. It weaseled under the doors and through the seams of your shirt. It was early December. “ Da xu e” season had arrived, the time for “major snow.”

But there would be no snow, there almost never is in Beijing. The waning days of 2018 had been crisp and clear, with flecks of starlight pricking the orange dome of the city at night. Snow didn’t matter. What mattered was the cold and now that it was here the people could make it.

It was Saturday, opening day at Nanshan, one of about 10 ski areas within an hour’s drive of Beijing. The resort was packed. For the past four days Nanshan’s 32 snow cannons had been firing fool-you-fluffy crystals that workers then pushed around to cover a few of the slopes. Loudspeakers urged beginners not to take the intermediate runs. Couples lounged on sun decks wearing bright blue rental ski jackets. Steam boiled from kitchens serving bowls of hot and numbing soups.