The first thing I noticed when I arrived at the airport in Seattle was the abrupt change in temperature. It's the first time on this entire trip that I have had to wear a jacket just to walk the streets - unless, of course, you count the bullet-proof vests that are a necessary part of day to day survival in parts of Los Angeles.

Strange as it seems to say this after the sweltering heat I've experienced in many places across the country so far, I honestly believe I would've quickly frozen to death in my hotel bed if the heating had gone off unexpectedly in the middle of the night - and after a few minutes out in the open, I felt as though I was suddenly living in the Antarctic. Exactly what makes it so very cold here compared to what seems a relatively short distance to the south I can't imagine - but it's quite important in Seattle to plan your itinerary in advance if you wish to wander further afield than downtown, otherwise you may return to your hotel doing a fairly believable impression of an icicle. Just to make things worse, Washington state is currently being lashed by what some of the slightly more hysterical news reporters are calling the storm of the century - and believe me, I've had to spend enough of the last week confined to my room for fear of being blown away to have spent many hours watching the news. Just yesterday, there were reports from all over the state of homes being literally blown away and roofs being ripped off by the wind - I will never complain about the weather again. I would've gone out for a newspaper so I'd have more to tell you about the local situation, but somehow I didn't fancy my chances of getting it back to the room - there would've been a report on the news tonight of an unidentified man flying away over the rooftops clutching a newspaper like a makeshift parachute. You probably think I'm exaggerating, but I have been advised by reception not to go out unless absolutely necessary - which strikes me as pretty convenient advice from a hotel who stand to make more money the longer I stay.

I did take the risk of going out to the local Denny's restaurant for breakfast yesterday morning, but after walking most of the way clutching onto walls for dear life, I stayed there for as long as I could get away with, looking out of the window at the bleak street outside and worrying that the trees I could see across the road, straining in the wind, would suddenly uproot themselves and fly in my direction as soon as I stepped back through the door. Eventually, I must have eaten everything on the menu and they chucked me out. Actually, that's doing Denny's a disservice - the truth is that Denny's is by far my favourite American restaurant chain and I have a good history of eating there because they are just so darn nice to tourists. On my first day here, being a Sunday, I went along for the American equivalent of a Sunday Lunch - a pot roast - and on the basis that the chef took five minutes longer than normal to cook it for me, they gave me a free desert and a coupon for 50% off my next meal there. You just can't quibble with that sort of hospitality.

One of my favourite anecdotes is from one of my many visits to Denny's over the years. Back in the early nineties, on a trip to Florida, Dad and I were sitting in a Denny's enjoying our lunch when a rather large Texan chap came in. He really was a total stereotype of the Texan type - big floppy hat on his head, rough Texas drawl, that sort of thing. Plonking himself down at an adjacent table, he called the waitress over and ordered the super-duper burger (or whatever it was called) and a portion of ice cream. A few minutes later, the waitress brought out a steaming platter containing his burger along with more chips than you could possibly imagine and every dressing known to man - this really was a huge burger, for a huge appetite. The Texan, however, looked at it disdainfully and, through gritted teeth, demanded to know where his ice cream was. The waitress patiently explained that she didn't think he would want it to melt while he was eating his main course, and he could call her when he had finished so she could bring it to him. This wasn't a good enough answer, and the Texan demanded that his ice cream be brought to him immediately. Slightly taken aback, but still polite to a fault, the waitress hurried off and got his ice cream which she laid down on the table in front of him. Without saying a word, this guy then took the top off of his burger, spread ice cream all over both sides of the bun, carefully poked pieces of lettuce and tomato into it and put it all back together again. He then settled down to eat his ice cream burger.

The weather, however, really is the only thing I can find to complain about - in fact, by the time I'd spent just five minutes in this unfamiliar city, I had decided quite conclusively that I liked it. The streets are lined with chic little boutiques and coffee shops full of laughing people, many of the buildings downtown are old and atmospheric, and if you don't want to walk then you just get on the monorail. How many cities can boast about having a monorail? Even the city centre Burger King is hidden carefully away inside an old building which looks as though it's probably under some sort of preservation order - you have to walk across the cobblestones on the floor to order your Whopper.

About Simon and Burfords Travels:

Simon Burford is a UK based travel writer. He will be re-publishing his travel blogs, chapters from his books and other miscellaneous rantings on these pages over the coming weeks and months, and the entry on this page may not necessarily reflect todays date.