A billionaire lived on 6 continents. When he made his fortune, he chose 2 places to call home. [Business Insider]
Some people collect cars, watches, or rare wines. One self-made billionaire collected continents. By the time he was 45, he had lived and worked on six of them—everywhere from a cramped apartment in Mumbai to a penthouse in São Paulo, a ranch in Namibia to a tech hub in Singapore. But when the billions finally landed, when the exit liquidity hit his bank account and he could afford literally any door on the planet, he made a surprising choice. He didn't buy a private island or a Swiss château. He picked two places to call home—and neither was what most people would expect.
I sat down with him over coffee in a city that wasn't one of his two homes. He asked that I not use his full name, because the whole point, he said, is that he doesn't want his geography to become his biography. But he agreed to share the reasoning. It's a story less about money and more about what money actually buys when you stop pretending it's a scorecard.
The accidental global citizen
His journey started in a modest apartment in the Middle East, then moved to Europe for university. After graduation, he took a job with a trading firm that shipped him to Southeast Asia. From there, it was a series of leaps: a start-up in East Africa, a consulting gig in South America, a manufacturing venture in Australia, and finally a tech company based in North America that became the billion-dollar exit. "I never planned to live everywhere," he told me. "I just followed the work. And the work kept taking me to weird, wonderful places."
By the time he sold his company, he had spent years in airport lounges, hotel rooms, and short-term rentals. He knew the best coffee in Ho Chi Minh City and the worst traffic in Lagos. He also knew something else: the more places he saw, the fewer he actually wanted to own. "Real estate is a trap if you buy it for status," he said. "I wanted homes that grounded me, not ones that impressed people I'd never see again."
The first home: a small city with big nature
His first chosen home surprised me. It's not a global capital. It's not a tax haven. It's a mid-sized city in the Pacific Northwest, about 90 minutes from a major airport, tucked between mountains and the ocean. He bought a modest house—modest for a billionaire, anyway—with a large kitchen, a wood-fired pizza oven, and a garden where he grows tomatoes and herbs. "I spent 20 years eating in restaurants," he said. "Now I cook. It's the most luxurious thing I do."
The city has a population under 200,000. There's no Michelin-starred restaurant, no private jet terminal, no billionaire neighbors. What it does have is a 20-minute commute to hiking trails, a river that runs through town, and a community where people know each other by name. "When I walk to the farmers market, I see the same faces. That's the opposite of what most wealthy people chase. They want exclusivity. I want belonging."
He spends about four months a year here, mostly in spring and fall. He runs a small foundation out of a converted garage, funding local environmental projects. "I could fund a global initiative with the same money, but I'd never see the impact. Here, I watch the salmon return every year. I know the people planting the trees. That's real."
The second home: a chaotic, vibrant megacity
The second home is the polar opposite: a sprawling, chaotic megacity in the Global South. It's hot, loud, and perpetually under construction. The air smells like street food and diesel. The traffic is a nightmare. "I love it," he said with a grin. "It's the most alive place I've ever been."
He bought an apartment in a building that's deliberately not the tallest or the fanciest. It has a rooftop terrace where he can hear the call to prayer mix with reggaeton from a nearby club. The neighborhood is a mix of old families, new migrants, and young entrepreneurs. "Everyone here is trying to make something happen. That energy is addictive. It reminds me of my early days in Mumbai and Lagos."
He spends another four months here, usually in winter. He's invested in a few local startups, not for returns but for relationships. "I'm not looking for the next unicorn. I'm looking for people who remind me of who I was before I had money. Hungry. Curious. Willing to fail."
The two months that don't belong to anyone
That leaves about two months a year unaccounted for. Those are for travel—not business travel, but the kind where he rents a car and drives without a destination. "I don't need to see every country anymore. I need to see the same quiet road in Patagonia at different times of year. I need to watch the light change over a desert in Oman. I need to be a stranger again."
He says the biggest mistake wealthy people make is trying to own too many places. "You end up with a portfolio of properties you never visit, maintained by staff you never meet. That's not a home. That's a liability." He has no plans to add a third home. "Two is enough. One for the life I built. One for the life I'm building. And the rest of the world for the life I just want to observe."
We finished our coffee. He checked his phone—a model from three years ago, no case. He had a flight in a few hours, back to the city with the river and the salmon. "I'll be there for two weeks," he said. "Then I'll start missing the noise."
He didn't say which home he loves more. Maybe that's the point. You don't choose a home because it's better. You choose it because it fits. And if you're lucky enough to have two that fit, you don't need a third.
Ahmed Abed – News journalist