Free Daughters of the Samurai: A Journey From East to West and Back by Janice P. Nimura Page B

DeLong strutted alongside them like a proud hen with unusually colorful chicks, enjoying the sensation they made.
    The carriage ride from the Embarcadero to the Grand Hotel lasted only a few blocks—hardly enough time to savor the novelty of horse-drawn transport. The streets were filled with the rattle of carriage wheels, churning up clouds of gritty dust between rows of buildings “as densely packed as the teeth of a comb,” wrote Kume. The hotel, a gleaming white confection of pediments and cupolas and oriel windows, rose four splendid stories at the corner of Market and New Montgomery Streets.
    The Grand Hotel was only a few years old, and its appointments dazzled the delegates. The lobby floor, paved with marble, was waxed to a treacherous sheen. The sparkle of crystal chandeliers vied with the glitter of gilt. Each suite had its own bathroom, with pure drinking water available at the twist of a faucet, and mirrors of limpid clarity. The scribe Kume, furiously scribbling notes on everything, waxed poetic with delight. “At night when one loosens a screw and sets the gas afire, the planets and stars circle above one as light glows inside white jade,” he wrote of the lamps in his room. “There are lace curtains on the windows that make one think one is looking at flowers through mist.” A button on the wall, when pressed, rang a bell hundreds of feet away to summon the hotel staff. But most extraordinary of all was what happened when a porter ushered Kume into a tiny chamber off the lobby, in which a few hotel guests were already standing, quite still and oddly expectant. A metal grille clanged shut. “I was shockedwhen it suddenly started to move and we were pulled upward,” he wrote of his first elevator ride.
    The procession of welcoming parties began first thing the next morning: the handful of Japanese students already in San Francisco; the city’s mayor, William Alvord; the gentlemen of the press, with each of whom Iwakura and his colleagues shook hands. The reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle had prepared carefully for this moment. “ Annata, anaata ohio doko morrow morrow !” he exclaimed, beaming with pride at being able to address the dignified visitor in his native tongue. Iwakura bowed gravely and, through his interpreter, thanked the man for his good wishes and his perfect command of Japanese. The reporter took his leave, quite satisfied with himself, though what he had actually uttered was gibberish. *
    At noon it was time for the officers of the army and navy, though it was almost one o’clock by the time everyone had assembled in the hotel’s ballroom. The floor had been covered with canvas, the walls draped in the flags of both nations. Iwakura and DeLong sat on an upholstered sofa—a posture that was more comfortable for the American. None of the Japanese visitors were accustomed to sitting on chairs, which made their dangling legs go numb.
    By two o’clock the military men had left and it was time for the consular corps. The doors of the ballroom were by now crowded with well-dressed onlookers, and while the embassy waited for the consuls to appear, a gaggle of young ladies entered, holding hands for mutual support. They introduced themselves to Iwakura, who chuckled and shook their hands. The spectators were charmed, and the delegates kept their shock to themselves. Women—and not even of age!—at a diplomatic ceremony?
    Representatives of England, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Argentina, Austria, Belgium, Bolivia, Colombia, Chile, France, Germany, Greece, Guatemala, Italy, Mexico, the Netherlands, Peru, Switzerland, Sicily, andPortugal presented their credentials. “The city of San Francisco, standing at the threshold of this continent, holds out her hands and bids you welcome,” proclaimed the president of the Chamber of Commerce, for whom good fellowship was clearly good business. San Francisco’s merchants stood ready to extend the doctrine of Manifest Destiny across the