Is this Los Angeles, the land of the Jetta and the Jaguar, the freeway interchange, the molasses-thick traffic? You couldn't tell it, at least on weekday rush hours, by going to Union Station. The place is full of commuters. None in a car. They pile out of subway stations on their way to work. They run, shoulder to shoulder, to Metrolink trains. They sit on leather seats waiting for Amtrak and stand — with briefcases and baseball hats and book bags — waiting for buses that shuttle to points all over the region.