I fly economy. I do often fly first class, but I don't travel

Gene Simmons, the larger-than-life musician and figure of spectacle, once spoke words surprisingly clothed in humility: “I fly economy. I do often fly first class, but I don’t travel with a posse, or bodyguard, or an assistant.” Behind the glamour of fame, behind the masks of performance, he reveals a truth that resonates with the wisdom of the ancients: that greatness does not always require pomp, and that strength is not diminished by simplicity. His words are both confession and instruction, a reminder that even the mighty need not be surrounded by excess.

The first meaning of his words is found in the balance between economy and first class. Simmons admits to both, showing that he is neither enslaved by luxury nor bound to austerity. He moves between them as life allows, recognizing comfort when it is fitting, but not demanding it as entitlement. This teaches us that wisdom lies not in rejecting riches nor in clinging to them, but in freedom—the freedom to choose without being consumed by desire.

He emphasizes what he does not bring: no posse, no bodyguard, no assistant. In an age where fame often surrounds itself with walls of attendants and followers, Simmons chooses to walk without them. This is not because he lacks power, but because he knows true power does not always need to be displayed. The hero who must constantly prove his might is insecure; the one who walks alone, without fear, proves his strength silently. This is a lesson as old as the samurai who walked the roads of Japan without escort, confident that their presence alone carried weight.

History provides us examples of this wisdom. The great Roman general Cincinnatus was called from his plow to defend Rome, and when his duty was done, he returned to his field. Though he held power, he did not drape himself in retinues or luxury. Or think of Mahatma Gandhi, who, though revered by millions, traveled with the simplest of possessions, often alone, a walking testament that influence does not require an army of attendants. Simmons’ refusal of entourage echoes this ancient truth: that humility magnifies, not diminishes, authority.

There is also hidden courage in his words. To travel without bodyguards is to accept vulnerability. But vulnerability itself is strength when carried with dignity. The king who walls himself behind soldiers may be feared but never loved; the man who walks among people openly can be touched, can be greeted, can receive gratitude without barriers. Simmons reminds us that humanity, not distance, is what binds leader to follower, artist to audience.

The origin of this wisdom lies in experience. Simmons, though wealthy and famed, remembers that spectacle is temporary, but character endures. He knows that fame without humility collapses into arrogance, and power without simplicity becomes mockery. Thus, his statement is not merely about flights and entourages—it is about living without being enslaved to one’s own image.

The lesson, then, is eternal: live simply, even when you can live grandly. Do not measure yourself by the number of attendants at your side, nor by the class of your seat on the plane. Measure yourself by your freedom from need, by your ability to walk openly, without fear, without pretense. True greatness is not built on distance from others, but on the courage to remain close, human, and unguarded.

Practical counsel follows: embrace humility in your own life. Accept comfort when it is given, but do not be ruled by it. Walk without the need for constant validation. Let your strength speak through your presence, not through displays of entourage or status. For as Simmons reminds us, whether you fly economy or first class, the true dignity lies in how you carry yourself—not in who carries your bags.