Starting on EPIK in South Korea: Visa, Hangul, and Finding My Place

When I stepped off the plane in Incheon with two suitcases and a job offer, the first thing handed to me in Korea wasn’t a key or a textbook—it was a small teal handheld fan. “Daegu gets hot,” the orientation staffer said. I laughed, then spent the next week fanning my face through monsoon humidity, cafeteria kimchi, and lecture slides about co-teaching and classroom management. By the time the bus delivered us to our placements, the fan felt less like a courtesy and more like a survival tool.

Landing the E-2 and All the Paperwork No One Warned Me About

The EPIK acceptance email was thrilling; the paperwork that followed was… less so. Back in California, I learned how much of an adult I could be while standing in post office lines at 8 a.m.

Here’s how my visa process actually played out:

• After my placement was confirmed, my school obtained a Visa Issuance Number (VIN) for the E-2 teaching visa. That number was the golden ticket.
• I applied through the Korean consulate serving my area (Los Angeles), submitting my passport, VIN, photos, fee, and documents I’d prepped weeks earlier: an FBI background check with an apostille and a copy of my diploma with an apostille. If you’re reading this early: start those apostilles now. Mine took longer than I expected.
• Processing took a little under two weeks. Then I picked up my passport with a shiny E-2 sticker and booked my flight.

Once in Korea, EPIK shepherded us through the medical check (a quick whirlwind of bloodwork, vision, hearing, and a chest x-ray) and set up immigration appointments for the residence card—lots of folks still call it the ARC. With that card in hand, everything else got easier: banking, phone plans, and health insurance enrollment.

The Apartment: Key Money, Tiny Kitchen, Huge Relief

EPIK either provides housing or a monthly allowance. My school set me up in a small studio near Seomun Market in Daegu. It came with basic furnishings, a washing machine, and a balcony that transformed into a sauna by 9 a.m. The school handled the deposit (key money), which was a relief. I bought the extras—bedding, a fan, and a water filter—using a mix of Daiso runs and a secondhand app (Karrot).

Approximate costs for me this summer:

• Utilities: 60,000–90,000 KRW/month (air con is life, but it’s not free)
• Phone plan: 45,000 KRW/month after switching to a resident plan
• Internet: 30,000 KRW/month (my landlord helped set it up)
• Groceries and eating out: 300,000–400,000 KRW/month, depending on my bingsu habit
• Transport: 60,000 KRW/month on my T-money card

Salary varies by level and location, but for context, my monthly pay falls in the low-2-million KRW range before taxes. I contribute to the pension (NPS) and National Health Insurance; as a U.S. citizen, I can claim a lump-sum pension refund when I leave Korea, which is a future-me gift.

Summer in Daegu: Monsoon Rains, Ice Coffee, English Camp

Daegu has a reputation for being the country’s heat bowl, and I learned this the sticky way. During jangma (monsoon season), you can walk out of your building into full sun and be drenched twenty minutes later. I learned to keep a compact umbrella in my backpack and a spare shirt in my desk.

Public schools take a summer break, but many EPIK teachers (hi) run English camps. I taught two weeks of morning camp to 5th and 6th graders with a travel theme—passport stamps, “around the world” stations, and an English scavenger hunt where kids had to find someone who “prefers bibim naengmyeon over mul naengmyeon.” They argued passionately about noodles in English, which was a win.

When I wasn’t teaching, I discovered the magic of “아아” (iced Americano), shared watermelon after lunch in the office, and ate samgyetang on the “bok” days (the hottest dog days of summer). People say hot soup helps you sweat out the heat; honestly, I just liked the ritual of it.

Learning Hangul: From Flashcards to Banwoldang

Everyone told me Hangul is intuitive, and they weren’t wrong—but intuitive isn’t the same as effortless. My first week, I labeled my apartment with sticky notes: 문 (door), 창문 (window), 냉장고 (fridge). I practiced on the subway, mouthing station names like a secret spell. The day I read “반월당” (Banwoldang) correctly without the English underneath felt like a breadcrumb of belonging.

There were also humbling moments. I meant to say I ate rice (밥) for dinner and instead told my co-teacher I ate night (밤). My students howled. It became a class meme: “Teacher eats night!” I leaned into it, made a slide about vowel pairs, and we laughed together. Learning Hangul gave me daily wins and mistakes that turned into rapport.

Practical tip: I took free evening classes at the community center near Suseong Lake and used Talk To Me In Korean for grammar. Anki helped me memorize signs around my neighborhood so I could spot things like pharmacy (약국) and repair shop (수리).

The Workplace: Hierarchy, Nunchi, and Finding My Voice

My school is a public middle school with kind students, diligent colleagues, and a workplace culture that felt totally new to me. Hierarchy mattered in ways I didn’t anticipate: titles, seating arrangements, and who spoke first in meetings. On my second day, I accidentally sat in a seat reserved for a vice principal during a staff meeting. A subtle glance from my co-teacher and a gently redirected chair later, I learned about nunchi—the art of reading the room—by doing it wrong.

Some things that helped me:

• Showing up early. Punctuality reads as respect.
• Using two hands to give and receive anything, especially to administrators.
• Communicating indirectly when needed. Instead of “No, I can’t,” I learned to say, “I’ll check and get back to you.”
• Bringing a small snack for the office now and then. My American brain thinks of donuts; my Korean office cheered more loudly for cut fruit and vitamin drinks.

Co-teaching meant planning lessons with a partner who knows the curriculum and the kids. My first “open class” (when other teachers observe) terrified me. My co-teacher suggested student-led tasks and shorter teacher talk time. We built a speaking ladder game and used simple visuals. Afterward, the principal told me, “Students active. Good.” I almost cried from relief in the bathroom.

Making Friends: From Cafes to KakaoTalk

My first friend in Korea was the school admin officer who taught me to refill my transit card and explained recycling. The second was a barista who asked about my Hangul flashcards, and the third was a hiking buddy I met through a local Kakao Open Chat group. Seoul gets all the buzz for meetups, but Daegu has a surprisingly warm scene—language exchanges, board game cafes, and a night market where I learned to say “a little spicy” (조금 매워요) with conviction.

I also joined a Saturday morning Korean class where we traded snacks and practiced introductions like we were at camp. One classmate invited me to a jjimjilbang (bathhouse). I hesitated, then went. Exfoliating with strangers while watching a K-drama on a hot stone floor was a unique kind of bonding.

For anyone worried about isolation: it’s real in the beginning. I had a Saturday where I didn’t talk to anyone until 5 p.m., and it spun me out. But showing up repeatedly—same cafe, same class, same grocery store vendor—built a micro-community. Routine became my friend magnet.

Day-to-Day: The Texture of a Life

School days run roughly 8:30 to 4:30 for me, with 20-ish teaching hours and the rest for planning, clubs, or desk time. We wear indoor slippers. Students greet me with “Teacher, hello!” and a bow, then immediately ask if I like BTS, if I have a boyfriend, and if I can dab. Lunchtime is a tray with rice, soup, two sides, kimchi, and fruit, and on hot days, the cafeteria aunties push extra iced barley tea.

After school, I ride the bus home using Naver Map (Google gets confused here), stop at the market for peaches, and video call my mom across the ocean before she heads to bed. On weekends, I’ve taken slow trips: a day train to Busan for the beach, a whirlwind dip into the Boryeong Mud Festival where I slipped spectacularly and emerged gray and grinning, and sunset walks around Suseong Lake with summer fireworks snapping in the distance.

Healthcare: The Yakguk and the Dermatologist

Enrolling in National Health Insurance happened through my school, and I used it faster than I expected. Heat rash plus humidity plus nerves sent me to a dermatologist. I showed my residence card, explained my symptoms with a mix of Hangul, charades, and Papago translation, and left with a prescription cream and a bill that didn’t make me panic. Pharmacies (약국) are everywhere, marked with a green cross, and the pharmacists have given me textbook-quality advice in gentle, slow Korean.

If you’re coming: bring some familiar meds for the first month, then switch to local. You’ll feel brave the day you ask for lozenges in Korean and get exactly what you need.

Recycling, Shoes, and Other Quiet Lessons

I messed up my building’s food waste disposal twice and got a polite note with a frown face on my door. Now I separate rigorously: food waste in the orange bag, recyclables sorted by type, general trash in the city’s pay-per-bag system. It’s annoying until it becomes automatic, like taking off your shoes at the door or pressing a button to heat your toilet seat in winter (a future joy, I’m told).

These small rules changed how I move through space, and strangely, they made me feel safer—there’s a shape to life here, and I’m learning it.

If You’re Considering EPIK

• Start your documents early, especially the apostilled FBI check and diploma.
• Budget for set-up costs: dishes, bedding, an extra fan. You’ll probably want a dehumidifier if you’re in the south.
• Learn Hangul before you arrive. It turns the country from pictures into words.
• Expect indirect communication and look for the message beneath the words. Nunchi is a muscle you can strengthen.
• Join things. Language classes, church groups, hiking clubs, volleyball at the university gym—show up until faces turn familiar.
• Ask your co-teacher everything. They’re your bridge.
• Keep a small stash of notecards and vitamin drinks for impromptu thank-yous. I didn’t think I’d need them. I do.

Closing Thoughts

I came to Korea with a degree, a packed suitcase, and a head full of messy questions about what I should do with my twenties. I’m leaving my first summer with a classroom full of kids who yell “Teacher! You eat night!” when they see me in the hallway, coworkers who pass me cool barley tea when the AC strains, and a tiny studio where the balcony is unbearable at noon but perfect at 8 p.m. with the city humming below.

It hasn’t been easy. Bureaucracy bruised my patience, heat wilted my willpower, and my Korean fills maybe two and a half pages of a notebook. But I’m learning, I’m laughing, and I’m present. That’s more than I could say a few months ago.

If you’re on the fence, know this: courage might look like a notarized diploma, a carry-on full of deodorant, and a willingness to mispronounce “Banwoldang” until the syllables settle in your mouth. And somewhere between your first iced Americano and your last summer thunderstorm, it starts to feel like you live here—not perfectly, not fluently, but honestly.

Best wishes from Daegu,