I live in London but I dine in China. When I chose to go back to school, I chose to—in my mid-twenties—return to dorm life; the main difference being that now I was classified as an international student and coincidentally put among many other foreign students. The international student label feels like a knock-off when applied to me, as the move from Boston to London didn’t seem as adventurous as the title would imply. There is one new area of my new environment that does hold a sense of extreme exoticism, has proven culturally shocking, and where my international status seems ever present…the communal dorm kitchen.

Raymont Hall, which at once sounds so distinctly collegiate and English, has three floors of both undergraduate and graduate housing. There are approximately 8-10 people sharing a kitchen, which is outfitted with one microwave, two sinks, and two disturbingly slow stoves. Despite a large number of Americans studying at Goldsmiths, none exist on my floor, reserved possibly for the overwhelming amount of students from China. Since we were not provided with some decidedly British term for our kitchen, I affectionately refer to it as Little Bejing. While this term may be slightly inaccurate, as I doubt all the Chinese students have come from Bejing, it sounds less racist than Chinakitchen.

The Chinese students arrived a few weeks prior to the other international students to participate in an intensive English language program (the success of which is not entirely clear). They’re also all studying Media and Communications, which means they’ve all had the summer-camp like atmosphere of bonding. It also gave them the chance to outfit the kitchen in a trove of various spices, sauces and—at time of writing—three different rice cookers. At the same time I’m passing on buying a cereal bowl since my small saucepan seems to be fulfilling that role quite nicely. Using a ceramic dinner plate as a cutting board hasn’t been as successful.

The bonding they developed in the early weeks has transitioned into elaborate group dinners, complete with hand rolled dumplings, special wine, and homemade cakes. Despite being a resident of the building and designated user of the dining room, I can’t help but feel like an intruder standing in the corner trying to figure out a way to muffle the act of aerating a frozen dinner. What I couldn’t hide from the diners was the fact that said frozen dinner was a budget Chicken Chow Mein entrée.

Not all of the judgement is imaginary though. Another transition I’m relearning as a student is the ability to sleep in on some days during the week, and having been a nine-to-fiver for the past three years I consider it my personal duty to savor these moments to their fullest, much to the Chinese dismay. I truly savored the moment one Wednesday when I woke up at quarter to eleven. Strolling into Little Bejing at eleven o’clock, I greeted the young lady who was preparing to make lunch. She smiled meekly back at me as I brought out my coffee supplies and cereal.

“You are just eating breakfast at this time?” She said as I poured milk into the saucepan. Despite her asking through a tight-lipped smile, her delivery was heavy with both judgement and offense as if my breakfast consisted of novelty penis shaped pasta in a tequila sauce.

With these sort of late starts one’s entire eating schedule can be moved back, which one could chose to call European rather than Lazy. I was preparing a simple dinner around 8pm when the same girl with the kitten-cute exterior and Jewish mother interior looked over and smiled, “You eat dinner late, no?” I replied with dignity, “I guess”, and kindly asked her to move as I needed to dispose of my dinner’s cardboard box.

My first real, personal interaction to one of the Chinese students was when one of the few other male students came in while I was cooking alone.

“Would you like to try a traditional spicy Chinese sauce” he asked me, reaching into one of the personal kitchen “cubbies” we’re alloted.

“No thank you” I said, somewhat alarmed at his enthusiasm. I knew heating up imitation Chinese food in front of them (okay, twice) was bad, but I contemplated if it could be culturally deemed poison-able.

We began the systematic introduction pleasantries that I had become accustomed to in past few days. I didn’t catch his name at all, but from what I did hear, I knew that repeating it wouldn’t help much. When I said my name he paused for a minute saying “Ahhhhhh”. Either my reputation really did precede me or he was relishing the linguistic delight it provided him. Savoring how “Rodney” is able to illustrate in just one word all the verbal delights of the English language.

“Please spell for me”

I spelled out my name slowly and he seemed to nod back and forth in true acknowledgment. The spelling of the name came up later when I met another Chinese student, the graciously named Summer. After I spelled out my name Summer wrote it in the air, as if she had a sparkler and was branding the air on the Fourth of July.

He seemed to understand when I said I came from Boston or at least enough to not need a the spelling. When I asked him where he was from he simply responded “mainland China”. Perhaps he accurately guessed my geographical ignorance or perhaps there was a political or language difference, but I made a point to look this up later. Could be my ticket to redemption if I ever wanted to taste the hand-rolled noodles that taunted my prepackaged meals.

Possessing at the time just the saucepan/cereal bowl, I was somewhat confined in my cooking abilities so I was making simple pasta with sauce. Despite lack of spicy sauce my new friend seemed interested, “Is that a traditional American dish, you have made?” The question took me aback, partly since I had never been in the position of imparting basic American cultural (and culinary) knowledge before, but also because despite having made the dish an incalculable amount of times I’m not sure it could be classified as “traditional”.

“It’s a traditional American student dish.” This seemed to please new friend immensely as he nodded and laughed. I was proud of him for understanding my traditional American humor. I wanted to repay his sense of cultural curiosity by trying the spicy Chinese sauce, but I was never a fan of spicy things and I felt my reaction wouldn’t make me the best ambassador.

I later saw he-who-cannot-be-pronounced cooking up a meal of sausages and frozen potatoes. While I cannot claim to be the sole influence for this dietary change and certainly don’t view it as a positive change, his enthusiasm for traditional western frozen foods, was the culinary white flag I needed. In fact, the girl who previously judged the time at which I ate my meals has soften to me, as I introduced her to the concept of shredded cheese. I took unexpected pride in being the first to introduce her to such an ordinary aspect of my cuisine.

Little Bejing seems too exclusive a title for what is clearly foreign soil for all. If given the opportunity my next dinner will include some traditional Chinese spicy sauce, but I won’t be eating it before 8pm.