Surprise cleaner’s disguise

There’s a cleaning lady at work. She’s in her mid-sixties, wears smart narrow glasses in a thin dark frame, and a ready smile on her face. She is always in a blue cleaning-coat, pushing a cart loaded with cleaning gear, everything from Mr. Clean spray to extra rolls of paper towels and tissues. She’s of average height, dark haired, but graying on temples, and has a gentle face, with lines of worries, or laugh, around her mouth. And, although spending her working hours cleaning toilets, she always appears clean and in good humor.

Last week I had a little chat with her, while waiting for water to boil for coffee. She told me I was the only person in the newsroom who says “hi” to her. Everyone else passes by, like by an inanimate object. I told her some of the colleagues take themselves too seriously. She laughed. “That’s Canada,” she said. There was no contempt in her voice, only sadness.

Her English is basic. I asked her where she’s from.
“Albania,” she said. Then laughed when I told her I’m from Croatia.
“I knew you couldn’t be a Canadian, you are too polite,” she said.

She was a pediatrician back home. She escaped the anarchy and corruption that mark Albania’s emergence from Communism. Her two daughters are doctors in the US. And she cleans toilets in the newsroom where everyone believes to be above her.