I have no plans to have any other home than Moscow. However, I

Mikhail Prokhorov, the Russian magnate and wanderer between worlds, once spoke with clarity of heart and spirit: “I have no plans to have any other home than Moscow. However, I love to travel, and I’m very comfortable in New York. In many ways, it reminds me of Moscow in its energy and drive.” In these words, he reveals the eternal tension between home and journey, between the loyalty to one’s roots and the fascination with distant lands. His voice reflects not only the heart of a man, but the universal longing of humanity: to belong, and yet to explore.

When Prokhorov proclaims that he will have no other home than Moscow, he affirms the sacredness of origin. For to each soul there is a soil that nourishes its roots, a city or land that shapes its memory and character. Moscow, with its cold winters and fiery spirit, its vastness and its history of endurance, is to him more than stone and street—it is identity itself. To forsake it would be to forsake his own essence. Thus he teaches that true belonging is not chosen lightly, but flows from blood, history, and the rhythm of the soul.

Yet, in the same breath, he declares his love for travel. This is no contradiction, but the balance of human nature. We are bound to our homes, but our hearts are stirred by the far horizon. Prokhorov finds in New York a reflection of Moscow, a mirror city filled with energy and drive. Though the tongues differ, though the architecture bears another style, the pulse is the same: relentless ambition, ceaseless movement, the burning fire of human striving. Here he reminds us that though lands are different, the essence of cities can be kindred, uniting East and West through shared vitality.

The ancients understood this kinship of cities. Consider how Alexander the Great, after building his empire, founded Alexandria in Egypt as a beacon of Greek energy in foreign lands. It was not Athens, yet it carried her spirit—knowledge, ambition, and vigor. Similarly, Rome, when it looked upon Carthage, saw both rival and reflection: another city of drive and power, bound by trade and ambition. Prokhorov’s recognition of kinship between Moscow and New York belongs to this same tradition—the wisdom of seeing likeness in difference.

His words also carry a lesson on comfort in foreign lands. Many travel but never feel at ease beyond their borders. Yet Prokhorov finds comfort in New York, not because it is home, but because he recognizes in its energy something he already knows. The wise traveler does not look only at what is strange, but seeks the familiar spirit beneath the unfamiliar form. In this way, the traveler is never fully alien, but finds threads of belonging wherever ambition, laughter, and striving dwell.

The deeper meaning of Prokhorov’s reflection is that identity is not shattered by travel, but deepened. To love Moscow as home does not prevent him from loving New York as a companion on the journey. To be loyal does not require being narrow; to be open does not mean being rootless. The strong soul can both cherish its birthplace and admire other lands, for loyalty and curiosity are not enemies, but allies.

The lesson, then, for us is this: be faithful to your home, yet open to the world. Know the soil that gave you life, but do not fear to walk in foreign streets. Seek the kinship of spirit that unites nations, and do not be blinded by difference. In every land there is something that mirrors your own, if you have eyes to see it.

So, O listener, take Mikhail Prokhorov’s wisdom to heart: remain steadfast in your home, yet never cease to travel. Cherish your city, your people, your origin, but let the energy of other lands teach you that humanity’s drive is one. For in Moscow’s fire and New York’s flame, as in countless cities across the earth, the same human spirit burns—unceasing, restless, and alive.