When I was a kid, I used to imagine that rich people lived in giant castles made of gold, that they drove everywhere in their Ferraris or were driven in limousines, that they ate nothing but caviar and ice cream sundaes. I imagined a wealthy life as one of extravagant excess; decadence unceasing.
Later, after I grew up a bit, I occasionally found myself in the company of real, non-imaginary rich people, or at least their children. When I visited their homes, I was almost disappointed to discover that none of them lived at Versailles. Perhaps there are a few nouveau riche centibillionaires, those living out lives on the far right edge of the long tail of the wealth curve, who genuinely do spend their days on their megayachts, swimming in pools of gold doubloons à la Scrooge McDuck, but these are surely outliers: the 0.1% of the 1%.
Far from being a life of excess, I might suggest that for most families with mere tens or hundreds of millions in generational wealth, the dominant motif is one of restraint. They do not lead outwardly flashy lives. They are not taking risks with their good fortune. They want to keep their boats, not rock the boat. These are people who have it made, and they know it. They are conservative: temperamentally, if not politically.
When I was at college, I was invited to spend the week with a classmate and her friends at her lake house. Imagine having an entire spare house (one of a small handful of properties her family owned, in fact) left sitting empty most of the time, just in case you or your friends ever feel like dropping in for a holiday. The house itself was tasteful and rustic: understated, not extravagant. Yet gradually it dawned on me that this was excess in its truest and most literal sense: The luxury of reserve capacity. Of having a surplus, more than one needs – extra time, extra money, extra space; extra help.
My guest bedroom came with its own en suite, a luxury I've never enjoyed any place I actually lived. That first evening, we arrived back at the house from dinner and as I entered my room I was startled by an older woman just exiting from the bathroom.
"Oh, sorry! I didn't know anyone was here," she explained, "I'm Susana. My husband and I, we live just down the road. We moved up to the lake full time when we retired. They pay us a few bucks to come over and flush the toilets every week. It keeps the plumbing in good shape, you see."
Ever since, this has been the marker of a wealthy life to me: paying someone to flush your toilets.