Prestige Is a Second Language: Decoding Cambridge Rituals as an International Student

“Never meet your idols.” The phrase is meant to caution against the disillusionment that comes from proximity to those we revere.  As an international student who grew up idealising places like Cambridge from a distance, I’m convinced the warning applies just as aptly to our romanticised visions of elite institutions. Of prestige, grandeur, and the magic of belonging.

Confused? Let me explain.

The famous Cambridge matriculation has always shimmered with mystique, a kind of academic Hogwarts, steeped in Latin, legacy, and long, candlelit tables. I imagined that when the principal handed me the ceremonial pen and I scrawled my name into the ancient college ledger, my life would be altered forever. That moment would finally prove, to myself and to everyone watching from afar, that I had made it.

Glasses of wine on table / Stock Image

And, in fairness, matriculation was exciting. Especially for those of us who had travelled halfway across the world to be here. For many international students, the gown photo in front of ivy-covered brick is more than a cliché; it’s a necessary moment of proof. To our families back home, who often watched our journey unfold with cautious pride and anxious optimism, the photo is a final, satisfying exhale. You can stop holding your breath now.

But of course, Cambridge makes you work for it. Even on matriculation day, when we are technically welcomed into the college, we are asked (some of us for the fifth or sixth time) to present our passports. A subtle reminder that no matter how many forms we’ve filled, documents we've submitted, or immigration checks you’ve concluded, our place here still requires just a* little* more verification.

Dress code was another small culture shock. "Formal, but warm," they said - for those of us unfamiliar with British autumns, this was no real help. Stockings, pleated skirts, Mary Janes, tailored coats — the wardrobes of UK students marked them out immediately. These were the unspoken customs we were still learning: what formalwear really means in Cambridge; how to decode a tradition from its footnotes.

And then came the formal dinner. The real event. The candlelit ritual everyone talks about, the one that ‘cements’ your arrival.

I assumed it would be elegant, maybe a bit grand — a chance to celebrate, take photos, eat well, and mingle with peers. But from the start, I felt the subtle but unmistakable undertone of performance. Pre-dinner drinks were held in a lavish, red-carpeted room, waiters lined up like stagehands, trays of drinks glistening under warm lighting. There was the usual juice for the abstainers, apple-raspberry, a token glass of sparkling elderflower, but champagne was the real star of the show. Easily 95% of the room held a glass.

This wasn’t just a toast. It was a soft initiation. A reminder that here, drinking is not merely social; it’s cultural. For many international students, especially those from places where alcohol isn’t the norm, it’s also exclusionary. The welcome was warm; but conditional.

From somewhere across the room, a man in a tuxedo shouts: “DINNER IS SERVED!”

We descended to the dining hall, where long rows of candlelit tables awaited us. Nametags, dietary cards, a choir perched above the college banners on the balcony — and yes, of course, gowns. 

When the choir began to sing, for a brief moment, I was convinced I’d stumbled into a Harry Potter set — or possibly an SNL sketch about elite institutions. My brain, already reeling from the vegan feta on condensed watermelon, struggled to process the pageantry.

And yet, as the evening wore on, the surreal became seductive. Warm pink lighting, laughter over seaweed-wrapped couscous, the slow comfort of becoming one of the cast. By dessert, I had almost forgotten that I was still, in many ways, a spectator.

Until my wine glass was filled.

Mid-conversation, I looked down to see it brimming with the ivory glow of white wine. Apparently, at Cambridge formals, you’re meant to turn your glass upside down if you don’t want alcohol. No one tells you this, of course — it’s one of those things you’re simply supposed to know. Because here, the assumption is that everyone does.

The grand finale? As the evening drew to a close and plates were cleared, no one moved. No coats were grabbed, no chairs were pushed back. We all waited — until, finally, the principal and her entourage rose, pushed their chairs in, and pronounced:

“Benedicto benedicatur.”

The cue. Latin, of course. A final flourish of pageantry — followed by the banging of a gong (yes, really), and only then were we permitted to stand and leave.

The curtains fell. The leads exited stage left. And we, the audience, trickled out, dazed and blinking, trying to make sense of the ritual we had just enacted and simultaneously experienced.

I turned to a friend, also an international student, also visibly bemused.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m too brown for this.”

We laughed, took our photos and uploaded the Instagram story — “Matriculation Formal ✨” — because of course we did. The fantasy was sold to us. It’s only right we sell it back.

What did I learn from this? Cambridge rituals are beautiful. But they are also bizarre  and more importantly, they are instructive. They teach us not only how to belong, but who is already fluent in the customs of belonging, and who is still learning the lines.

From gowns to Latin grace, from wine glasses to whispered cues, these traditions operate like theatre. They shape behaviour, enforce decorum, and invite awe. But they also delineate — quietly — who is in on the joke and who is still catching up.

As an international student, you see it all more clearly. The glamour and the absurdity, the magic and the mimicry. And maybe that’s the true initiation: not the dinner itself, but the moment you realise you’re both in the play and watching it.